Nobody
by allthingsdecent
Summary: What if Cuddy was in the picture when Wilson was dying? The rare multi-part fic from me.
1. Chapter 1

**Sometimes I feel like I just write the same story over and over again, with only the tiniest details changed. This is one of those times. Anyway, this is basically going to be a bizarro version of the end of Season 8, but with Cuddy in the picture. Any resemblance to 87 Letters is, well, unavoidable. Not sure how many chapters it's going to be. I have _some_ ideas going to forward, but haven't quite mapped out the whole thing yet. (I know. Inspires confidence, huh?) **

**My apologies for the appearance of Dominika. I understand she's a dealbreaker for some of you. Just remember, in my fics she's a harmless simpleton and a sign of how low House has sunk.**

"We don't need to order the twice-baked potato _and_ the mashed potatoes," House grumbled.

Dominika, who loved all things American, had become particularly enamored of steak houses. She couldn't get over how huge the portions were.

"In Ukraine, this would feed whole family," she would often say, her eyes widening as her steak arrived.

But when it came to ordering, she showed little restraint. House tried to explain the steak house ethos.

"They gouge you by making everything a la carte," he said.

"What is a la carte?" Dominika said, wrinkling her nose.

"French for expensive," House said.

"But pleeeeeease, Doctor Greg! I want it all!"

House rolled his eyes, shrugged at the waiter, as if to say, "Let her order whatever the hell she wants" and began idly scanning the restaurant, looking for ways to distract himself. (Dominika was many things—a good conversationalist was not one of them.)

His eyes set on a group of well-heeled men sitting around a table with a younger woman. The woman had her back to House, but he could tell just by the way the men were leaning toward her, grinning stupidly, their tongues practically hanging out of their mouths, that she was beautiful. Men were so predictable.

And then the woman at the table laughed. And Dr. Gregory House turned white.

"Doctor Greg, you look like you just saw a ghost," Dominika said to him.

He looked up at her, swallowed hard, threw his napkin on his empty plate.

"We're leaving," he said quietly. "Let's get the check."

"The check? But Doctor Greg, our steak hasn't arrived yet. I haven't had the potato that is cooked two times."

"Tell them to put it in a doggy bag," House hissed. He handed Dominika his credit card. "I'll meet you in the car."

And he left the restaurant as though he was fleeing the scene of a crime.

In the empty car, he said outloud: "Get a hold of yourself, House."

But he was completely rattled.

What the hell was she doing in Princeton?

Who were those men?

How could he have possibly, for a second, not recognized her, even from behind? He had memorized every inch of her body a thousand times over.

He was losing it.

Dominika got in the car, holding an enormous bag of food, looking concerned.

"Are you sick?" she said, going to feel his forehead.

"I'm fine," he said, violently shaking her off.

"Then why did we have to leave?"

"I was suffocating from the stench of pretension," he said.

She began to pout.

"You never take me out for nice American meal," she said.

He gunned the engine, peeled out of the parking lot.

"You _do _realize that I'm not really your husband, right?" he growled. "This is all for pretend so you don't have to go back to the Ukraine and I don't have to go back to jail."

"Why are you yelling at me?" she said. "Why are you always so mean to Dominika?"

And she started to cry.

"Oh Christ," House said under his breath.

He was in a hell of his own creation.

#####

After Dominika went to bed, he grabbed a bottle of scotch, sat in his favorite chair and called Wilson.

"Did you know about this?" he demanded.

"About what?" Wilson said, groggily.

"You know."

"House, it's 1 am and you just woke me up from a particularly good dream. Nurse Tiffany was involved. Whatever it is, we can talk about it tomorr—"

"What's Cuddy doing in Princeton?" House said.

He could hear a shift on the other end, as Wilson sat up in bed.

"Oh," Wilson said.

"Oh," House echoed.

"How did you even. . . "

"I saw her at The Prime Cut. That's besides the point. Wilson, what the hell is Lisa Cuddy doing in New Jersey?"

A pause.

Then, finally: "She's in talks for a job at the hospital."

"What job? Foreman has her old job. There is no job." He felt a little frantic.

"A new position: CEO. She would oversee both the medical departments and the administrative ones and serve as a liaison to the board. Basically, ever since the hospital opened the new wing, there's been a feeling that we needed more seasoned leadership. . . They want her back, House."

House took a gulp of his scotch.

"How long have you known about this?"

"She called me a few weeks ago. Told me when the talks were beginning."

"And when were you planning on letting me know?"

"I didn't think there was any point in agitating you until she accepted the job. . . Tonight, that meal you witnessed at the Prime Cut? That was her final meeting with the board."

"_And_?

"She accepted, House," Wilson said, in an unnaturally calm voice, as though he was talking to someone standing on the edge of a cliff. "She's moving back to Princeton."

House slumped back into his seat. He went to pour more scotch in his glass, but found that his hand was shaking too much. He took a swig from the bottle instead.

"What does this mean?" he said.

"It means that she's done running away from her problems. She wants to come home."

"Does it mean she's . . . forgiven me?"

Wilson hesitated. Sighed.

"I don't think she's ever going to forgive you, House."  
######

She started two weeks later. They gave her gorgeous new office, in the new wing, and there were rumors of a seven-figure salary.

It was, by all measures, a triumphant return.

House knew he had to take the bull by the horns and go see her.

He strategized his approach:

Contrite?

Charming?

Righteous?

Impossibly suave and nonchalant?

He was still mulling over his best option when he felt a presence in his office. He looked up. She had beaten him to the punch.

"Hello, House," Cuddy said.

His mouth went dry.

She looked better than ever—if that was even possible. Her hair was a little longer, it hung on her shoulders in loose waves. She was wearing a form-fitting pinstriped business suit. He had never known a woman who could combine power and sex appeal like Dr. Lisa Cuddy.

"H. . .hi," he managed to choke out. (Nearly mute had not been one of his options. But she had blindsided him.)

"I'm sorry to just show up in your office unannounced," she said, as though reading his thoughts. "But we need to talk."

"Have a seat," he said, gesturing to the chair.

"This won't take long," she said, not sitting.

And in that very moment he knew: She wasn't going to forgive him. This wasn't a thawing, any kind of détente. She hated him. Seeing him right now was a formality, something she had to swallow, like medicine.

"I guess you heard that I've taken over as CEO," she said.

"You're the talk of the hospital," House said. "Congrats."

"I just want you to know that our interaction will be at an absolute minimum. I'm in the new wing, no doctors report to me directly except for Foreman. You'll never have to see me. Nothing has to change."

"Okay," he said.

"I'm sorry if my presence makes you uncomfortable," Cuddy said.

"It doesn't," he lied.

"This was just too great an opportunity for me to turn down."  
"I completely understand."  
"If you don't like it, _you_ can leave," she said, jutting out her jaw a bit.

He wondered if she had practiced her speech. Wondered if she had settled on cool and defiant.

"I'm happy for you," he said.

"Good."

"How are you?" he said, lamely.

"I'm fine," she said, turning to leave. "That's all I had to say, House. Have a nice day."

######

At the end of the day, he went by Wilson's office.

"Wanna get shit-faced?" he said.

"Tempting, but I can't," Wilson said. "I….have a date."  
House frowned at him.

"No, you don't."

"I'm pretty sure I know when I have a date."

"I know you don't have a date because you don't have on that horrible aftershave you douse yourself with when you have a date. And you're not wearing your lucky date socks."

Wilson looked down at his feet.

"These socks have always brought me extraordinary luck," he said.

"What are you really doing tonight?" House said, folding his arms.

Wilson sighed.

"If you must know, a bunch of us are going out with Cuddy, celebrating her return to the hospital. I didn't want to tell you because—"

"I'm not on the guest list."

"Exactly."

"I can handle it, Wilson. Cuddy is back. People are going to see her, talk about her. _You're_ going to see her. I'm fine with that."

"Are you?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"I guess not." He looked up cautiously at his friend. "Have you seen her yet?"

"She came by my office."

"Bold move."

"Yeah."

"And?"

"I believe the expression is colder than a witch's tit."

"You were expecting hugs and balloons?"

"Nope. I thought maybe we could manage 5 minutes of small talk. A kind of, 'How was St. Louis? Fine. How was prison? Sucked.' sort of deal. But no. She could barely stand to be in the same room with me."

"I'm sorry, House," Wilson said.

(Not, "she'll come around, House" or "give her time, House." Wilson thought the situation was as bleak as he did.)

"It was Cuddy but it wasn't, you know? It was like talking to a stranger," House said, almost to himself. "How did I fuck things up so badly?"

"It's your special skill, House."

#####

Cuddy was right. They were able to complete avoid each other. House never went to the new wing (it even had its own separate cafeteria) and Cuddy rarely came to the main part of the hospital.

There was a time when he might've stalked her, hacked into her computer, found reasons to "accidentally" bump into her in the new wing—but there was no point. He knew that now. And if there was one last decent thing he could do for her—one tiny way to make amends—it was leave her alone. She deserved that much.

So as not to appear too desperate, he didn't grill Wilson—or Chase or Foreman for that matter—for details on her life, but he picked up bits and pieces.

She had been successful in St. Louis—a department head; the hospital loved her; there was even a big article in the local newspaper on St. Louis General's rising star—but she had missed her mother and Julia. In particular, she felt guilty that Rachel was growing up with her grandmother.

So when PPTH came calling, it seemed like a sign.

She had a new boyfriend, House heard—a psychiatrist named Noah Bernstein. They had been dating for 7 months. For now, they were attempting a long distance relationship.

(House hadn't been able to help himself: He googled the guy. He was 50 years old, a barrel-chested man with a dark beard and lively eyes. He had been a star wrestler in college. Articles on him referred to him as "the brilliant psychiatrist Noah Bernstein." House cringed a bit.)

A few weeks after her arrival, Cuddy gave a "State of the Hospital" address that the entire staff was obligated to attend. House signed the attendance ledger and ducked out, hid in the park across the street. He didn't want to see her dazzling people. It would hurt too much.

Things with Dominika had completely soured. They had never been great, to be honest, but he had at least tolerated her. He was lonely and she was a warm body in the next room. She cooked for him. She was nice to him, even when he was a dick to her. (The beauty of Dominika was that she was too dumb to notice when he was being an asshole). She was harmless and agreeable and she worshipped the ground he walked on. But he could no longer fool himself. She wasn't just a poor substitute for Cuddy. She was no substitute at all. She was a sign of how low he had sunk.

As happens when people sense they are being rejected, Dominika got a bit desperate—pawing at him, whining, demanding his attention like a petulant child. He found himself yelling at her more and more. He hated himself for it—it was like yelling at a newborn foal. Finally, thankfully, the envelope from the Department of Immigration and Naturalization arrived and they were able to amicably part ways.

####

And then Wilson got sick.

It was a sucker punch—a bad joke, proof that God didn't exist (or did exist and had a sick sense of humor), that his life was fucked permanently.

And Wilson, always so cautious, so reasonable, so well-behaved, had chosen now of all times, this end game, to be rebellious, to act like, well, House.

An extreme blast of chemo and, if that didn't work, he was calling it a life.

So House smuggled the chemo equipment out of the hospital, nursed his friend for two days—mopped his brow, changed his bedpan, endured the kind of desperate, delirious, asshole-ish behavior that he usually specialized in.

But it didn't work. Wilson was still sick. Without treatment, he had five months to live.

And then House's worst fear would finally come true: He'd have nobody.

#######


	2. Chapter 2

Cuddy never saw herself as someone who ran away from her troubles.

But some situations were simply too toxic to be sustainable. So maybe it was running away, maybe it was the coward's way out—but she preferred to see it as removing herself and Rachel from an unhealthy situation. (What was that old line again about insanity again? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result? That, in a nutshell, was her relationship with House.)

So she didn't stick around to see how the story ended.

She simply took Rachel and left.

St. Louis was nice, friendly, unhaunted by ghosts. She liked the hospital a lot. She'd been living there for 8 months when she went to a party and met Noah. He was flirty, charming, attentive.

"They told me you were pretty," he said, pouring her a glass of white wine. "They didn't tell me you were a movie star."

Noah was, in many ways, the anti-House: Physically, they were complete opposites: Noah had a thatch of dark wavy hair and a full beard that was speckled with grey and he was broad shouldered and projected great strength. Plus, he was warm, avuncular, what the Jewish people called a mensch.

When Julia came to visit, she met Noah and pulled Cuddy aside.

"Doesn't Noah remind you of someone?" she whispered mirthfully.

"No," Cuddy said. "Who?"

"Dad, of course!" Julia said, shocked that Cuddy hadn't made the connection.

At first Cuddy vehemently disagreed, recoiled at the very thought. But then it dawned on her—_of course_ she would turn to a father figure after her ordeal with House. Of course she would turn to a man who made her feel safe.

She talked to Wilson a couple times a month—kept peripheral tabs on House's progress. (He had been her obsession for 20 years—moved 500 miles away wasn't going to change that overnight.)

She knew that he had gotten out of prison, that he was living with that Green Card skank, that he had a new team—including a peculiar little Asian girl and a debutante do-gooder.

And, of course, House had found her. (Once that article in the _St. Louis Journal_ ran, she was easy to track down.)

He sent her long, rambling letters that veered wildly from apologetic to angry to despondent and back again. He called her, usually when he was quite drunk, usually late at night, professing his undying love.

One night, House called at 2 am and Noah answered the phone.

He never called again.

More and more, Cuddy found herself thinking about Princeton—about her mother, who wasn't getting any younger, about the fact that she had been banished from her own home.

It wasn't fair that House got to stay, got to resume some semblance of his old life when she had been completely upended.

So when the head of board from PPTH phoned her, she took the call. And at dinner at the Prime Cut, she accepted their generous offer.

Noah was too enlightened a man to ask her to stay in St. Louis. It was her life, her career. But he couldn't leave his practice, either—he had a staff of his own. Plus his grown daughters lived in Missouri. His eldest, Sarah, was getting married in the spring.

So they decided to do the long distance thing. See how it worked out.

On that first day, she had stood outside House's office for at least 10 minutes, steeling her nerves, catching her breath. She had demonized him so much in her mind, she had practically turned him into Voldemort.

But he was just a man. When she saw him, all the old feelings flooded back to her: Love, anger, regret, sadness, even a bit of lust. His neck turned red when he saw her and he sputtered out an incoherent greeting and his eyes were wide and hopeful. She had given him so much power in her mind that she had forgotten. _She_ was the one who had power over him. Always had.

She had faced the object of her fear and obsession head on and emerged unscathed. Now, she decided, they could finally both move on with their lives.

And then, a few months later, Wilson came to her office, looking stricken, and told her that he was dying. Her first thoughts were the usual: grief, sadness, disbelief.

But her second thoughts were, inevitably, all about House: She had always taken secret comfort in knowing that he had Wilson in his life—a decent man who understood him, believed in him, loved him unconditionally. If Wilson died, House would truly be an alone.

Not your problem, Lisa, she reminded herself. _Not your problem_.

####

The hospital's chaplain told her that the chapel was falling apart, in dire need of repairs. She decided to see for herself.

It was mid-afternoon, the chapel was quiet. She checked the altar, the pews, the statuary. A little worn with age, but hardly unworkable. She turned to leave. That was when she saw a figure sitting in the back pew, his head down—not quite in prayer, but in deep thought.

"Have you found God?" she said, ironically.

House looked up, a bit dazed.

"I'm hiding from my team," he said. "And this is the last place anyone would look."

"True that," she said.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"CEO stuff," she replied.

"Oh."

He was wearing a wool coat, even though it wasn't particularly cold in the room. He looked tired. He looked like he needed a hug.

"Well, I promise I won't rat you out to your team," she said, starting to leave.

Then she stopped.

"House. . .I've been meaning to come by and tell you: I'm really sorry about Wilson."

"That makes two of us," House said sadly.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I doubt it."

She inhaled a bit.

"If there's anything I can do. . ." She hoped it sounded platitudinous, not sincere. She didn't really want to help him. More accurately: She did want to help him and was doing everything in her power to quash that impulse.

"You can help me convince him to do more chemo," House said bitterly.

"What?" Cuddy said, stepping toward him, genuinely confused. "Wilson told me the cancer was untreatable."

"Not untreatable," House said. "It's a long shot, but he won't even try."

"Why on earth not?"

"Because he wants to die in dignity, even though we all know that's never an option."

"That's madness," Cuddy said. She was so stunned by this development, she forgot that this was the longest conversation she and House had had in more than two years.

"Please tell him that." House said.

"I will," Cuddy said.

She began to leave again. Then looked over at House. His head was bent again.

"You coming?" she said.

He blinked at her.

"Coming where?" he said.

"To Wilson's office. If we show up together, as a united front, it'll have to affect him. He'll know we mean business."

"Really?" House said.

"Yes!" Cuddy said, spurred on by righteous indignation. "He needs to know that we're not going to stand idly by while he kills himself."

House stood up, grabbed his cane.

"Cuddy," he said. "Thank you."


	3. Chapter 3

**The beauty of multi-part fics is I can post small chapters, like this one.**

**Also, I forgot to thank my fearless beta readers who proofread Pts.1 and 2: Princess Maya Rudolph, MystryGab, Gaia, and Irene. Thanks for the confidence boots, ladies.-ATD**

That Lord Tennyson guy was a complete moron.

That's what House was thinking as he and Cuddy made their way to Wilson's office.

Better to have loved and lost than never loved at all?

Bullshit.

Because this was the closest he and Cuddy had been in more than two years and there was still an ocean between them—and it was positively KILLING him.

Case in point: House told Cuddy about Wilson's risky dose of chemo, about the little makeshift radiology lab they had set up in his apartment—and she barely batted an eye.

There was a time when she would've given him an enormous amount of shit for doing something so risky and unethical. But not today.

"Huh," was all she said.

Giving House shit was their version of foreplay. It meant she cared.

His relationship with her—before the vicodin, before the accident, before prison—seemed like a lifetime ago. Were they really as close as he thought they were? Did they really share everything? Was the sex really as mindblowing as he remembered it being (or had he magnified it? He must've magnified it . . . _right_?) Did he really have a family of sorts? A kid he had come to love? A house? A life? Was that really all his?

Loving and losing it all because you fucked up royally, because of some character defect on your part that made you incapable of giving or receiving happiness—that was his lot in life.

Write a poem about that, asshole.

#####

They had arrived at Wilson's office.

They walked in, a united front.

Wilson looked up, blinked at them.

"Whoa," he said. "Flashback to 2010."

"Why didn't you tell me your cancer was treatable?" Cuddy demanded.

"Because it's not."

"House says it is," Cuddy said.

"Twenty percent chance of survival," Wilson said.

"As opposed to _zero_ percent chance of survival if you don't do the chemo," House said. "Tough call."

"I agree with House," Cuddy said.

Wilson smiled, knowingly.

"It's really beautiful to see you guys together like this," he said. "I'm touched."

"House and I still have one thing in common, and that's our love for you," Cuddy said. "We are totally united on this."

Cuddy folded her arms. House unconsciously mimicked her, folded his arms, too.

"I can see that," Wilson said, teasingly.

"Wilson, this is NOT a joke!" Cuddy said. She was getting frustrated.

"Believe me, no one's laughing," Wilson said.

"I just don't understand how you, a man of science, a _doctor _could refuse the very treatment you've been prescribing to your own patients for years. It makes no sense."

"I want to die on my own terms," Wilson said.

"No such thing," House said.

"Bullshit!" Wilson said, finally raising his voice. "You say there's no dying with dignity and, okay, so maybe that's true. But I can still choose HOW I want to die. I know you guys both believe in assisted suicide for terminal cases."

Cuddy looked at the floor.

"I. . I. . ."

"Not officially. Not as a hospital administrator. But as a compassionate human being. I know you believe in it."

Cuddy nodded mutely.

"I'll gladly smother you with a pillow when the time comes," House said.

"Good," Wilson said. "I'm counting on it. Because this is what I want. I want to die sooner rather than later. I don't want to drag it out. I want to be healthy until I get sick. And when I get sick, I want to die."

Now he looked up at them.

"I love you both. And I'm so honored that you're standing here like this before me, so grateful. I know how hard it is for you. But my decision is final."

The look in his eyes was resolute. Then looked down at a scan in his hands.

"And now, if you don't mind, I have a patient consult I need to prepare for."

House grabbed the file out of Wilson's hand.

"Oh look!" he said. "Stage two melanoma. I bet you're going to recommend—wait, I know!—chemo!"

"Let's go, House," Cuddy said gently. "He's made up his mind."

House looked at her, a bit shocked that she had given up so quickly.

He exhaled testily, handed the file back to Wilson and followed her out of the office.

"That stubborn ass," Cuddy said, once they were alone in the hallway.

"I told you."

"He's making a horrible mistake."  
"I know."

"But I don't know what else we can do."

He hesitated for a second, then—trying to keep his voice casual: "Maybe we can discuss it further? Over drinks?"

But he had clearly taken it too far. Cuddy, who had been almost relating to him like a friend, an ally, suddenly seemed to jolt back to the reality of their situation.

"No House, you've misunderstood," she said.

"I'm not saying let's go on a date," he grumbled, already defensive. "I'm just saying let's have a drink and see if we can figure out a way to save a dying friend."

"I'll give it some thought," she said. "And if I figure anything out, I'll _call_ you."

He couldn't let her walk away. Not when he finally had the tiniest of openings.

"I could really just. . .use a friend," he said, lamely.

And she looked him the eye.

"We're not friends anymore House. I did this for Wilson, not you. Go home."

######

Three days later, she got a call from her old assistant Anita, who was now working for Foreman: There was some sort of commotion involving clogged pipes and House that she thought perhaps Dr. Cuddy might want to attend to.

Cuddy frowned, strode from the new wing to Wilson's office.

The hospital counsel, Arthur Pope, was there, along with Wilson, Foreman and House. She noted the look on House's face. His skin was ashen. He looked like he was about to cry.

"What the hell is going on?" she said.

"They found the culprit for the flooding," Foreman said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "A stack of tickets flushed down a toilet. House's tickets. With House's fingerprints all over them."

She had no idea why this was a cause for a summit—House had done far worse under her watch and she'd handled it—on her own.

"And?" she said, testily.

"It's a violation of his parole," Arthur said. "He has to go back to jail."

"For six months," House said, looking at her meaningfully.

She understood immediately. House would be in prison when Wilson died.

"This is ridiculous," she said.

"Ridiculous, perhaps. But binding," Arthur said.

"Of course House's prints were on the tickets! They were his tickets, right?"

"Right," House said.

"That's hardly proof that he flushed them down the toilet. And how the hell do _wet tickets_ have fingerprints anyway?"

She glared at the lawyer.

"This is the flimsiest, most bullshit, most trumped up set of charges I have ever heard of. If you can't make this go away, Arthur, then I am clearly paying you way too much."

"It's not as simple as it sounds, Lisa . . ."

"Make it go away," she said firmly.

Arthur looked at her, looked back at Foreman.

"I'll make it go away," he said, sheepishly.

"Thank you," Cuddy said. She shook her head at Foreman, somewhat disgusted, and left.

House followed her into the hallway. She was walking so briskly, she didn't notice that he was behind her.

"Cuddy," he said. He grabbed her arm. She stopped, looked at his hand accusingly. He dropped it hastily.

"I know you did it for Wilson," he said. "But thanks."

She looked at him.

"I did it for you, too," she admitted.

#####


	4. Chapter 4

As promised, Arthur Pope got the charges dropped and, a few days after that, House requested a leave of absence so he could go on one last wild road trip with his best friend. ("My very own _Travels With Charley_" House described it. "Only, uh, with Wilson.")

They returned, six weeks later, sporting matching sunburns and 5 o'clock shadows, breathless with tales of evaded speeding tickets, epic eating contests, and triumphant backroom bar brawls.

"Wilson scratches and claws like a cheetah in heat!" House boasted to anyone who would listen. "He may fight like a girl, but he is a truly fierce ally in an unfair fight."

"Grandma Wilson taught me everything I know," Wilson said, grinning.

And they slapped hands.

Cuddy hadn't seen either of them so happy in months.

But the merriment was short lived.

Six weeks after they got back to Princeton, Wilson began to feel fatigued. Cuddy would find him dozing off, at his desk, in the middle of the day. Five weeks after that, the nausea came. Wilson made arrangements for all his patients to be treated by other oncologists in the hospital. He was beginning to lose weight—starting to get that sunken look of a man with cancer. And four weeks after that, he was hospitalized with pneumonia. He weighed 97 pounds.

House kept a constant vigil at his bedside. They played cards—House's deck was festooned with bare-chested pin-up girls—and watched Bruce Lee films and had fierce video game battles. They played "fuck, marry, or kill" about every female employee of the hospital. ("Marry," they said in unison, when Cuddy's name came up.) Wilson could barely keep any solids down, but House ran all over Princeton and beyond to find any kind of food that his friend had the tiniest appetite for—he'd come back to the hospital with bags of chicken mole or lamb korma, that mostly went untouched. They reminisced, but not too much. And House gave Wilson shit—"I'm amazed you haven't proposed to the candy striper yet" or "You don't have to write her a thank you note every time she wipes your ass"— because he knew that the more normal he kept things, the better Wilson would feel.

Cuddy visited often—sat with the two of them. (It was impossible not to interact with House because House was always there.) Usually they kept the conversation to banal small talk. "How's he feeling? Did he manage to eat anything today?" But one day, just as Cuddy was about to leave the room, she looked at Wilson's sleeping frame and then back to House. "I'm proud of you, House," she said softly. "Wilson couldn't ask for a better friend."

He gave a kind of half-hearted shrug, like he didn't quite believe her.

"No," she said firmly, making eye contact. "I'm serious. You've been with him every step of the way. It's been extraordinary to watch."

Now his eyes met hers.

"I guess I learn from my mistakes," he said.

She was halfway back to her office when she realized he was talking about her cancer scare.

She worked late that night and swung by Wilson's room one more time before leaving. House was curled up in the chair next to Wilson's bed, fast asleep. Cuddy found a spare blanket in a supply closet and covered him.

The next morning, she saw House holding Wilson's head up as he helped him swallow down a few sips of water.

"Thank you," Wilson whispered wearily to his friend.

"Anytime," House said.

Two days later, James Wilson was dead.

######

Cuddy expected House to be a complete wreck at the funeral, but she had forgotten one important thing about him—he was a master at hiding his pain.

He gave a funny, sad, and touching eulogy.

"If Wilson was here, I know what he'd say," he started, running his hands nervously through his hair. "He'd say: Don't screw this up, House."

Later, he affectionately teased Wilson's incompetence with women. "It's amazing the guy was married three times because he had NO GAME," he marveled. "None whatsoever. He wore this cologne that smelled like battery acid and his idea of a good pickup line was, 'Chamomile or Earl Grey?'" He chuckled at the memory.

House ended the eulogy like this: "Wilson was such a polite bastard, he even had to _die _before I did. . ." Then he looked down at his hands. "I don't know how I'm supposed to live without James Wilson in my life. I had hoped to God I'd never have to find out."

And he limped off the altar and sat down in the front row, wedged between Wilson's parents and Foreman. Cuddy saw him cover his face with his hands. He didn't look up for the rest of the service. She knew that he would never let anyone see him cry.

#######

He was worse at the reception. She noticed right away. His eyes had that glassy look they got when he had taken too many vicodin. He was pounding shots of whiskey like there was no tomorrow.

Of course, a large part of him wished there _was_ no tomorrow.

Cuddy kept hoping that somebody would take him home, or at least wrestle the drink out of his hand or give him a hug.

But who?

Who besides Wilson or herself recognized when House was on the edge, when his self-destructive streak was about to bubble over and turn into something truly dangerous? There were people who cared—Foreman, Thirteen, even Chase. But they didn't really know him.

House had two people: Wilson and herself. And now he was alone.

_Not your problem, Lisa. _

So she walked up to him, gave him a pat on the shoulder and said, "I liked your eulogy."

Then, before he could respond, she turned around and left the reception. It was raining outside. In the car, her own tears mingled with the splash of rain against the windshield, the gentle _whoosh-whoosh_ of the wiper blades.

By the time she got home, it was dark.

When she opened the door, she was greeted by a big Golden Retriever with hot breath and a lazily wagging tail.

"Hiya Sadie," she said, petting the dog behind the ears. "Who's my good girl? Who's my good girl? I missed you."

She stepped into the foyer, shook the water off her umbrella.

"Hey!" she shouted.

"Hey!"

Noah emerged from the kitchen, a dish towel over his shoulder.

"You made it!" Cuddy said.

"I made it," he said, smiling.

"How'd Sadie do on the flight?"

"Fine. She's always a little jittery at first. But she's calm now. She's been looking for Rachel."

"Yeah, I thought it was for the best if she stayed with mom tonight," Cuddy said. "I knew it was going to be a rough day."

"You okay?" he said.

"No," she admitted.

And he held out his burly arms for a hug, which she gratefully accepted.

He kissed the top of her head.

"Today sucked," she said plainly.

"I know," he murmured. "I wish I could've gotten here earlier."

"Me too," she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

He stroked her hair for a few minutes and then they parted.

"Hungry?" Noah said.

She shrugged.

"Not really. . ."

"I made chicken and barley soup," he said. "Comfort food."

"I'll take a little."

They ate dinner—or more accurately, Noah ate dinner and Cuddy swirled her soup with a spoon—and then Cuddy took a bath. By the time she got out of the tub it was late, almost 11.

She put on a robe and wandered into the living room. Noah was standing at the window, staring rather intently outside. It was raining hard—the water was drumming loudly against the side of the house.

"You coming to bed?" she asked.

"There's a man out there," Noah said, frowning.

"A what?"

She wrapped the robe more tightly around her and joined him in the window.

"I don't see anything," she said, squinting.

"Over there," Noah said.

And then she saw him: A shadowy figure, tall and lanky, slightly bent on the right side where he was leaning on his cane.

"That's House," she said, in disbelief.

"_House_ House?" Noah said.

"Yeah," Cuddy said.

She had told Noah all about House. Everything—about their long and complicated relationship, his unparalled brilliance, the car crash. She didn't like to keep secrets.

She put on a coat, pulled on a pair of rainboots, grabbed her umbrella.

"Wait, I'll go with—" Noah started.

"I've got this," she said.

She ran outside, across the street.

"House! What are you doing here?" she shouted through the rain.

He wasn't carrying an umbrella. He was wearing a wool coat, that clung to his body heavily.

"I don't know," he said, slightly dazed.

"How long have you been standing here?"

"I don't know," he repeated.

She put her arm around him and held the umbrella over his head.

"Well come inside, you're soaked."

He followed her obediently. She had expected him to be in a rage, but he was the opposite—docile and subdued.

When they got inside, she gave him a towel. But instead of drying himself off, he just stood there, holding the towel lamely, until she was forced to do it herself.

She took off his coat—it was so thick with moisture, it must've weighed 30 pounds—and threw it on the ground. Then she rubbed his arms and head with the towel. He was shivering.

"Noah, get me a blanket," she ordered.

Noah went to the closet, got a blanket, and helped her lead House to the couch.

"Who are you?" House said, squinting at Noah. (Of course he knew about Noah, but in his current state, he was too out of it to make the connection.)

"I'm Noah."

"You look like Jerry Garcia," House said, laughing. He shakily held up two fingers. "Peace, brother."

"Peace, man," Noah said, smiling a little.

"He seems nice," House said to Cuddy. "Is he nice?"

"Very," Cuddy said. Then, to Noah: "Help me get him to the spare bedroom."

They half-carried, half-dragged House to the spare bedroom. They stripped him down to his tee-shirt and boxers, which were miraculously dry—and Noah got him a pair of his sweatpants, which were swimming on him. Cuddy double knotted the drawstring.

House slumped on the edge of the bed.

"Wilson's dead, Cuddy," he said, almost astonished, as though the thought had just occurred to him.

"I know, House," she said.

"I'm all alone," he said.

Cuddy turned to Noah. "Give us a minute, okay?"

He nodded—he wasn't the jealous type— and headed toward the bedroom.

"You're not alone House," she said, sitting next to him.

"I have nobody," he said.

"Yes you do," she said. "You have your team. You have . . . your mother."

He looked at her earnestly.

"Do I have you?" he said.

What was she supposed to say? He was grieving, drunk, miserable.

"You have me," she said softly.

And he put his arms around her and rested his head on her shoulder, his body was wracked with tears.

And she rubbed his back and held him closer and let her own tears mingle with his.

Holding him like this, she felt an unexpected surge of affection and relief. And she realized that she had wanted to hug him since Wilson's diagnosis—she just hadn't allowed herself.

"It's going to be okay, House," she murmured, over and over again. "I'm here. . ."

#######


	5. Chapter 5

House awakened to the sensation of hot breath on his face, the swat of something taut on his leg.

He opened one eye.

There was a giant head inches away from him, breathing heavily, all golden hair, large snout, and whiskers.

"Ahhh!" he said, recoiling.

At that moment, Noah came rushing on, holding a cup of coffee.

"Sadie!" he scolded. He grabbed the dog by the collar, maneuvered her out into the hallway.

"Sorry," he said. "She got curious. Staged a break-in."

House rubbed his eyes.

Where the hell was he?

And then—shit—it all came flooding back to him: Standing in the rain, Cuddy drying his hair, the spare room. Holding her.

"Where's Cuddy?" he said. He was surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded. He licked his lips for a second. They were crusted and slightly sour. Ugh. Must've thrown up at some point last night. Hopefully not in the bed.

He looked down at the sheets. Sweaty, but relatively clean.

"She's at work," Noah said.

"And Rachel?"

"At school."

House rubbed his eyes.

"What time is it?"

Noah looked at his watch. He was fully dressed, already, in a button-down shirt and brown wool cardigan, the kind with leather buttons and elbow patches.

"It's 12:15," he said.

"Shit," House said, attempting to get up. But he stopped, before he could stand, because his head was throbbing. He sat on the edge of the bed instead.

"Ouch," he said.

"Easy there," Noah said. "How bout some of this first?"

And he handed House the coffee.

House looked at the mug but didn't take it.

"I find that this works quicker," he said. He grabbed his jeans that were on the floor and reached into the pocket, pulled out a bottle of Vicodin. He shook four pills into his palm.

The he yanked the mug from Noah's hands, swallowed down the pills with the hot liquid.

He grinned.

"Thanks," he said.

"Maybe you should go easy on those," Noah said.

"Says who?"

"Says any reasonable person who saw the state you were in last night."

"I plan on being in that state again tonight, so consider this a head start," House said.

"Bad idea," Noah said.

"Under the circumstances, an excellent idea," House countered.

"I'm sorry," Noah said.

"Me too. But wait. . . remind me again. What are we sorry about?"

"I'm sorry that your friend died," Noah said.

"Thank you. Such words of concern from a complete stranger are very meaningful to me."

"You're right. My fault. I'm Noah," he said, sticking out his hand. "I helped get you into this bed last night. Helped you throw up a couple of times, too."

House looked at his outstretched hand, didn't take it. "I'm sure that was a real thrill for you," he said. Then he added, "I know who you are. You're the new boy."

"Not so new," Noah said. "Lisa and I been together for almost a year now."

This was the closest to defensive that Noah had been yet. (Mostly he had been talking to House in the soothing voice of a psychotherapist—which, of course, he was.)

"Rebound guy," House said pointedly.

"Perhaps. But one with staying power," Noah said, looking him straight in the eye.

House looked back: He took Noah in. He was a type. Strong but cuddly. An intellectual bear. Tufts of salt and pepper hair jutting out from the collar of his shirt.

House smirked.

"Have you ever seen a picture of Cuddy's father?" he said, knowingly.

"No," Noah said. "Why?"

"No reason," House said, still smirking.

He managed to stand.

"Well, it's been swell getting to know you, Noah. But I'm going to work."

"Lisa told me to tell you to take the day off," Noah said. "Let me make you some breakfast. . .or lunch." And he chuckled.

"You said lunch because it's afternoon!" House said, laughing too loudly. "Hilarious!"

"Some food might do you good."

"A neck beard trimmer might do _you _some good," House said.

"Funny," Noah said.

"Much as I'd love to continue this male bonding," House said, yanking off the too-large sweatpants and pulling on his jeans. "I think I'll go to work instead."

Just then, there was a buzzing in Noah's pocket.

He answered.

"Hi," he said. "Yeah, he's awake."

A pause.

"Feisty." He looking at House.

Then he said: "He thinks he wants to go to the hospital. . .Uh huh. . .okay."

He handed House the phone.

"Lisa wants to talk to you."

House took the phone, stared at it dumbly for a second, then put it to his ear.

"Hello?" he said gently. The sarcastic edge was completely gone from his voice.

"How are you feeling?" Cuddy said.

"Like I was hit by a hearse," House said.

"Which is why I want you to take the day off."

"We both know that's a bad idea, Cuddy. Idle hands. Devil's workshop. You know the drill."

"If you come to work, everyone is going to be hovering, asking how you feel, telling you how sorry they are about Wilson. Do you really want to deal with that?"

He sighed. Of course she was right.

"No," he said softly.

"Then go to a movie. There's a James Bond festival at the Odeon. The early ones, the ones you like best, with Sean Connery."

She must've been looking for something to distract him. There was no way she just happened to know that.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay," she repeated. "I'll check in on you later. Now put Noah back on."

He hesitated, then handed the phone to Noah, who took it out in the hall.

"Uh huh. Yeah. Okay," House heard him say. Then, "I can handle him. Love you, too."

House cringed.

Noah came back into the room, rubbed his hands together.

"Now how bout that breakfast?"

"Fuck off," House said.  
#####

He ignored Cuddy's advice, didn't go see a Bond film, instead went to a bar a few blocks from his apartment. He sat and drank all day—watching as the crowd changed from lonely daytime drunks to joyful happy hour revelers to the early shift of nighttime barflies on the prowl—then staggered home around 9 pm.

For the second time in 24 hours, he threw up.

There was a knock at the door.

"Go away!" he shouted.

"House, it's me."

Cuddy.

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. His hair was poking up, unruly. He was still wearing yesterday's shirt. He smelled of vomit and alcohol.

He quickly swallowed some mouthwash, splashed some water on his face, limped to the door.

She was standing in the doorway, wearing a coat and a red scarf, her cheeks a bit rosy from the November wind.

The last time Cuddy had been to his apartment was more than two years ago—the night she dumped him.

He tried to make his voice sound normal.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she said, peering inside, frowning a bit.

"I must've been a real mess last night if you feel a need to check up on me," he said.

"You were," she said. She stepped into his apartment without asking permission. Then she took in his appearance: "And by the looks of things, you're not in a much better state right now."

"Guilty as charged," he admitted.

"House, what am I going to do with you?" she said.

_Take me home with you. Kick out that Noah guy. Take care of me._

"I'll be fine," he said. "I've removed all sharp objects from the premises."

"Not funny, House."

"A _little _funny. But I promise you, I'm not suicidal."

"You sure about that?"

"I'm sure. . . .Wilson died. It sucks. But news flash, I'm going to die one day, too. And you too! Also, Noah. . . hopefully him sooner. . ."

"Have you eaten anything?" she said, ignoring him.

"I had some beer nuts at Clyde's," he said.

She shook her head, put down her purse.

"Sit down," she said. "I'll make you an omelet."

He sat, obediently, gratefully, watched her pull out the ingredients for a Western omelet, crack eggs into a bowl.

"Cuddy, why are you doing this for me?" he said finally. A part of him didn't want to know. Didn't want to break the spell. Whatever her reason, it was good enough. But he had to know if this was a temporary détente, a final favor for Wilson, or something real.

"Because I'm worried about you,' she said.

"Picked up on that. . . But you've barely said a word to me in two years. Now you're standing in my apartment, cooking for me. . .Is it guilt? Do you feel obligated somehow?"

She stopped chopping the green pepper and looked at him.

"Yes," she said.

"Why?"

"Because if not me, then who?"

"There are lots of people who don't get the benefit of having Lisa Cuddy in their lives. What makes me so special?"

"House, don't be cute. You know I care about you."

"Do I? Until recently, I thought you hated my guts."

"Until recently, I did," she said, laughing a bit, pouring the peppers, the onions, the ham into the eggs and stirring. "But I also never stopped caring about you. Even at my angriest, I used to check up on you. I had Wilson give me tabs on your progress."

"I never knew that," he said.

"No, I asked him not to tell."

House digested this bit of news.

"So this truce—tonight, last night: All because you feel sorry for me that my best friend died?"

Cuddy took two slices of bread, put them in the toaster. Then she stood over the burner and began to cook the omelet.

"No," she said thoughtfully. "It was something else. I saw a different side of you, the best side of you, when Wilson got sick. Reminded why I fell in love with you in the first place."

_Love._

They were both quiet, perhaps contemplating that word.

Then the toaster popped, jarring the silence.

She slid the omelet onto a plate, buttered the toast, gave it to him.

He wasn't even hungry, but he would eat anything she made him. He'd eat a bowl of dirt if she'd dug it for him with her own hands.

She sat across from him, watched him eat.

Then she looked at her watch.

"It's getting late. Noah's going to worry," she said.

"Then call him and tell him you'll be home soon," House implored. "Stay a little longer."

She pursed her lips, considered it, then shook her head.

"I really should go," she said. "Look, we have plans all weekend."

_We._

"Noah is taking us to Armonk for a bluegrass and wine festival . . . but if you need me, if you need anything, just call okay?"

_I need you._

"Okay," he said and managed to swallow down the last bit of toast.

She got up, stood behind him, put her hands on his shoulders.

Then she briefly rested her chin on his head—a gesture so familiar and so intimate he almost burst into tears.

"No more drinking," she whispered.

"Except water," he said.

"Except water," she agreed. The she picked up her purse. "I'll see you on Monday."


	6. Chapter 6

The awkward thing about working in the new wing and being CEO was that Cuddy had no reason to casually "drop by" House's office.

She remembered, with some embarrassment, all the excuses she used to manufacture: the contrived case consultations, the false anger she mustered over petty things, that time she literally _hijacked his office_.

Of course, more recently, the opposite had been true. She'd gone out of her way to avoid him, been grateful for the real estate between them. For a few months, she'd almost managed to forget that the former love of her life was running his department a mere 50,000 square feet away.

Now she was just confused. She worried about him. She _wanted_ to check up on him.

She had been able to imagine, albeit with great difficulty, House without her in his life. Imagining House without Wilson was almost inconceivable. It boggled the mind. It was like thinking of Sherlock without Watson. Snoopy without Woodstock.

_I don't know how I'm supposed to live without James Wilson in my life, _he had said.

She wanted to look after him without being too obvious. For one thing, it would be upsetting to Noah. (Noah wasn't exactly the jealous type, but there was only so much of the ex boyfriend hanging around that any man could take.) For another, she could feel herself beginning to get sucked into House's vortex. (She'd been in love before—heck, she even loved Noah. But she had never fixated on a man the way she did with House. He had a way of dominating her thoughts, infecting her very blood.)

But the only thing harder than seeing House was staying away.

So she marched down the hall—toward his office. People in the old wing were always happy to see her. There were squeals, small commotions, a few complaints about Foreman's way of doing things ("Take it up with him," she would say), a few belated congratulations. Finally, she got to House's hallway.

She could hearing him yelling before she even got to the door.

She stood listening for a minute.

"But he won't fit in the MRI," that peculiar Asian androgyne was saying.

"Then find a magician and saw him in half!" House bellowed.

"But we. . ."

"Teach him yoga so he can bend himself into a pretzel."

"That's not. . ."

"I don't care what you do. Use your brains for a change and get me my God damned MRI!"

And she watched as his fellows scrambled like roaches into the hallway.

Now she stood in the doorway, folded her arms, contemplated him.

"Morbidly obese?" she guessed.

House looked up, clearly shocked to see her.

"Actually, a beanpole," he said, collecting himself. "But he's 7 foot 2. He plays in the NBA D-League. He's been fainting on the court."

"Marfan Syndrome?"

House smiled, just the tiniest bit. He liked when Cuddy played his game.

"Already ruled that out," he said. He looked her up and down in that vaguely carnivorous way of his.

"So what brings you to the cheap wing?" he asked.

She stepped into the DDx room.

"Checking up on you," she admitted.

"Ahhh. Well, as you can see, I'm fine. Yelling at my team for being morons. Same as ever."

"You were yelling a little louder," she said.

"They're a little dumber," he countered.

"I know you," she said, looking in his eyes, which were glassy. "You're high as a kite."

"A low flying kite," he admitted. Then he took a swig of his coffee, attempted to change the subject: "How was the bluegrass and wine festival?"

She was always amazed by House's ability to remember everything she said, even if he had been completely high when she said them.

"Fun," she lied. Actually, Rachel had been cranky the whole time because there weren't enough kids' activities and Cuddy herself had been too worried about House to enjoy the music. Also, she wasn't totally sure she actually _liked _bluegrass. At least there had been wine.

"So. . .hey," she said cautiously. "What are you doing tonight?"

"You mean, in between the cotillion ball, the Hollywood premiere, and the gala fundraiser?" he cracked.

"Come to Sullivan's," she said.

"With you?" His eyes widened.

"With me and. . . 15 of my closest friends," she said sheepishly

"Oh."

"Just a little happy hour. It'll be fun," she said.

"No thanks," he said.

"C'mon House. You need to get out of your apartment."

"You don't need to invite to me to all the fun mixers with the cool kids just because you take pity on me," he said.

"I'd call it less pity and more concern," she said.

"Same dif," he said.

"No… You have pity for complete strangers. You have concern for people you care about."

He smiled again.

"You're good," he said.

"So you'll come?"

And now she smiled at him, a flirty, proud of herself smile that he had always found irresistible.

He sighed.

"Okay," he said.

"Yes!" She said, pumping her fist jokingly. Then she braced herself. "There's one more thing. . ."

"There always is."

"Noah will be there."

House snorted, somewhat derisively.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Technically, this happy hour is for him. To introduce him to some of my friends."

"Have fun," House said. Case closed.

"Why should it matter?" Cuddy demanded.

"You know why it matters," House said.

"Because you're jealous of him?"

"Yes," he said, plainly.

"Well, you need to get over that, okay? Noah and I are together. If you and I are going to be friends, you're going to need to get along with him."

"Who said I wanted to be friends?" House said.

Cuddy stepped back, stung.

"I just thought that. . ." She looked at the floor.

He immediately saw that his words had hurt her.

"Of course I want to be friends," he said quickly. "It's just. . .hard, you know?"

"I know," she said.

"You really want me to come to this thing?"

"I really do," she said.

"Will Julia be there?" he asked.

"God no!" she said. "I wouldn't subject you to Julia _and_ Noah in the same night."

"You're a compassionate woman," he said.

She peered at him expectantly.

"So six o clock?"

"Okay, " he said, with a heavy sigh. "I'll be there."

######

Back when they were dating, one of House's favorite pastimes was watching Cuddy work a party.

Of course, he hated parties himself. But he marveled over her ability to glide from one conversation to the next, the effortless way she charmed people, her somewhat explosive little laugh that seemed to detonate like joy bombs all over the room.

Tonight, however, he sat at a corner stool at Sullivan's and watched her interact with _him_.

He was thankful that they weren't one of those PDA couples, not overly touchy feely. Still, he observed little things that smarted, maybe even more: The way Noah wordlessly took the olives out of his martini and handed them to her; a moment when he showed her something on his phone and they both laughed; the tiny glances they exchanged; the secret jokes.

She's in love with this teddy bear, he thought miserably.

Once was, the best part of watching Cuddy work a party was knowing that he'd have her all to himself when he got home. She was only on temporary loan to these people. That this radiant creature belonged to him.

This, however, was some form of fresh torture.

He wondered if Noah lusted after the way he used to. If he was as eager to take off her party dress as he had always been. Of course he was.

"What have you been staring at all night?"

Cuddy's voice. Busted.

"The most beautiful creature in the room," he admitted.

"House!" she scolded.

"I was talking about Chase. Who'd you think I was talking about?" he teased.

She smiled, softened.

"When I invited you to this party, I kind of thought you might actually _join_ the party, not just lurk on its outskirts."

"Do you know me?" he asked.

"I suppose," she said with a shrug. "But it just seems like no matter what I do, you end up drinking alone."

"Hey," he said. "This is the most social I've been in months. Baby steps."

She smiled.

"You sure I can't coax you over to the table? We're having a massive debate over Bloomberg's war on junk food. I know how much you love pointing out people's baser instincts and making everyone look like an idiot."

"I'll pass," he said.

She was standing so close to him that he had an urge to put his arms around her waist, draw her toward him, the way he did when they were dating. The urge was almost reflexive. He folded his arms.

"Don't leave without saying goodbye," she said.

_Leaving without saying goodbye_, he thought bitterly. _Our specialty._

"I won't," he promised.

He watched her walk away. For a few moments, he was lost in memories of parties past, of nights with Cuddy. Then he noticed that Noah was a few feet away from him, ordering two martinis.

"Hey," House said.

"Hey," Noah said, cautiously.

House scratched his head a bit, thought about what he could say that would please Cuddy.

"I feel like we got off on the wrong foot the other day," he said.

"You told me to fuck off, so yeah, I'd have to agree," Noah chuckled.

"I'm sorry about that. I. . .wasn't myself."

"According to Lisa, you very much _were _yourself," Noah said.

House shrugged.

"Fair enough. But you didn't deserve it. You were nice. I was a dick. End of story. . . And I'm sorry."

"It's okay, House," Noah said. "No one would expect you to be at your best under the circumstances. Apology accepted."

"Thanks."

The two men nodded at each other.

Noah turned to go back to the table, then stopped.

"There is one more thing," he said.

"What's that?"

"Stay away from Lisa."

House was taken aback. Maybe this guy wasn't such a teddy bear after all.

"_What?_" he said.

"I think you heard me."

"What's your problem, _Noah_?" He dragged out the name, in an overly familiar way.

"My problem is: Lisa was a wreck when I first met her. She was depressed. Anxious. Had major trust issues. All because of you."

"I'm just that good," House said, instantly regretting it. There was nothing funny about what had happened between him and Cuddy—nothing.

Noah glared at him.

"I think you are a very destructive force in her life," Noah said.

"And it's awfully self-serving of you to say that, isn't it?"

Noah nodded.

"Yeah, I get it. I see what she sees in you. The leather jacket, the stubble, the puppy dog eyes. The whole bad boys needs mothering thing."

"Sounds like _you_ want to fuck me, Noah," House said, with a derisive grin.

They were both keeping their body language measured. No one out of ear shot would have idea they were sniping at each other.

"Lisa doesn't want to fuck you," Noah said.

House raised his eyebrows.

"If you say so."

"But I can already see it starting again. I can see that you're beginning to suck her in, like a moth to flypaper."

"Are you comparing Cuddy to a lowly moth? Because she's much more of a beautiful butterfly if you ask me. . ."

"This is what you do, right?" Noah said. "You take advantage of her kindness and draw her in with your neediness."

"Yes," House said. "It was all part of my master plan to have my best friend die of cancer so that Cuddy would take pity on me and start spending more time with me. You nailed it!"

Just then, Cuddy materialized at Noah's side.

"I saw you two talking," Cuddy said, slipping an arm around Noah's broad waist. "So naturally I panicked."

"Just getting to know each other," Noah said, kissing her on the cheek and smiling.

"Yup," House said. "Male bonding."

Cuddy gave him a look to suggest that she suspected he was lying, but was playing along because it was what she wanted to hear.

"Good," she said. "Because I know this is awkward, but I really think you guys could be friends."

"Absolutely," Noah said.

"Best buds," House agreed.

And the two men stared at each other, each waiting for the other to blink.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for all your thoughtful comments, guys. I sometimes think the comments are more thoughtful than the story itself. They give me a lot to chew on.**

**One thing about my gazillion stories: If you're looking for a particular scenario, I've probably written it already. For example, to the person who wants a more contrite Cuddy, one who accepts more of her role in the crash/breakup, I might recomment Four Women. . .**

**Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter. . . - ATD**

The best thing about sex with Noah wasn't the sex itself. It was the part _after_ sex—when Cuddy lay in bed with Noah's tree-trunk arms wrapped around her as she drifted into a comfortable sleep. It made her feel warm and safe and loved. She'd never met a man who combined strength and gentleness like Noah. He was like a security blanket in human form.

Not that the sex was bad, mind you. It was merely a bit vanilla. She enjoyed it, such as it was, but it wasn't she like she ever wanted to slam him up against a wall and have her way with him—or vice versa. (Not that Noah was the wall-slamming type: He was really more of a cuddler.)

It was inevitable, of course, that she would compare Noah in that department to House.

Much to her great surprise, House had been a bit of a cuddler, too. (She'd always assumed he was strictly a _wham, bam, goodnight, ma'am_ kind of guy.) Not only did House like to hold her after sex, she sometimes woke to find him idly stroking her arm or her hair in the middle of the night. (His occasional insomnia made him a stealth cuddler.)

But with House, sex was definitely the main event. In his case, she _did _fantasize about slamming him against walls—and, on more than one occasion, had been the slam-ee herself. Their sex life was off the charts. She'd heard of new couples who couldn't get enough of each other, who felt a need to inaugurate every room of the house. That had been her and House throughout the entirety of their relationship. (And the inauguration had extended to various rooms in the hospital).

Cuddy had a theory as to why she and House had been so hot for each other: They had waited 20 years to have sex— that much pent up desire and horniness was hard to get out of your system. It was an itch that could never be fully scratched. That was partly what made their relationship so volatile, she supposed.

Cuddy was having this thought, as she lay in bed, enrobed in Noah's arms. (After the happy hour, he had been eager to pay the nanny, put Rachel to bed, and peal off Cuddy's clothing. Who said he and House had nothing in common?)

Now he looked at her adoringly.

"Hi," he said contentedly.

"Hi," she said back.

"Do you know how much I love you?" he murmured, smelling her hair.

"I have a pretty good idea," she chuckled.

Then she faced him, propped her head on her elbow.

"Did you have fun tonight?" she asked.

"Why?" he said. "You wanna do it again?"

"Not that," she scolded, hitting him. "The party."

"Ooooh, _that_. I had lots of fun," he said. "Thanks for introducing me to your friends. I feel official."

"You _are_ official," she said.

"Good. I really liked all your friends . . ." he said.

There was a clear "but" in his voice.

She narrowed her eyes.

"_But_?"

He glanced at her, started to say something, then stopped.

"Forget it," he said.

"What?" she demanded.

"Nothing," he said. "I'm just being silly. Never mind."

She peered at him.

"You want to say something about House, don't you?"

He hesitated. Then kind of blurted it out: "I was just surprised to see him at the party, that's all."

Cuddy pursed her lips.

"We talked about this. I'm worried about him. "

"Can't somebody _else_ worry about him?" Noah said, ironically.

"I'm all he's got," Cuddy admitted.

"But doesn't that tell you something?" Noah said. "That he's so toxic, he's managed to alienate every single person in his life?"

"Tells me that he's a royal pain in the ass," Cuddy chuckled. "Which I knew already."

"But what changed, Lisa? You hated him. You were afraid of him."

"I never hated him," Cuddy said. "And I wasn't afraid."

"I was," Noah said plainly. "When you moved back to Princeton I worried that he might stalk you—or get violent."

"He's not a criminal!" Cuddy said, trying not to sound defensive.

"Isn't he?" Noah said. "Isn't he, quite literally, a criminal?"

Cuddy sat up now, squirmed out of his arms.

"He's a healer!" she said.

"He heals the sick and scars the healthy," Noah muttered. "He's a real prince."

"That's not fair."

"I just. . .I don't get it, Lisa. What changed? This is a man who drove his car into your home. Endangered your life and the lives of others."

"You know what changed: Wilson died."

"And you feel sorry for him."

Cuddy thought about that for a second.

"No, it's more than that. I realized that life is too short to hold onto anger. Especially toward someone you"—she glanced at Noah—". . .care about."

"Well, he's still in love with you," Noah sniffed. "In case you were wondering."

"Why? Did he say something?" She tried not to sound too eager.

"No, but I saw the way he was looking at you at the party."

"I can't control that," Cuddy said.

"And . . . I saw the way you were looking at him."

"You're imagining things," she said.

"No, I'm not," Noah insisted. "When you were standing with him, talking. It's like you were touching without touching, you know?"

"Touching without touching? What does even mean? You're being paranoid, Noah."

Noah sighed.

"I saw what I saw," he said, sulkily.

Cuddy leaned her head against the headboard, sighed. Then she took his hand, kissed it.

"You have no reason to be jealous of House," she said firmly. "I promise."

"I wish you'd stay away from him, all the same," Noah said.

"Why?"

"Because he's a destructive force in your life. Because his hold over you is unhealthy."

"Look, Noah—House and I were friends for 20 years and enemies for just two."

"Don't forget lovers," Noah said testily. "Lovers for a year, too."

"Yes, and lovers, too. But the point is this: You expect me to throw all that history away just because you're jealous?"

"If I was treating you, clinically, I'd tell you that you're deluding yourself, falling into old bad habits."

"Don't do that, Noah! I hate when you do that! You're not my analyst! You're my boyfriend."

"My opinion stays the same. As your boyfriend or your analyst."

"Be a man, Noah. Don't hide behind your degree. If you're jealous, just say so."

"That's a shitty thing to say," he said.

"Well, it's a shitty way to talk to your girlfriend," she said.

He glared at her. Then, quite unexpectedly, he got out of bed.

"I need some air. Go to sleep, Lisa. I'll see you in the morning."

And he stormed out of the bedroom.

Cuddy watched him, in some dismay.

She felt vaguely sick: She and Noah almost never fought. How could this be happening?

After about half an hour of tossing and turning, she put on her slippers and padded into the kitchen. The glass door to the deck was cracked open. Noah was sitting outside at the table. Sadie was curled up at his feet.

Cuddy put on the nearest coat—Noah's army green parka—and stepped outside.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into the night.

"I'm sorry, too," he whispered back.

She walked toward him.

"I don't like this fighting thing," she said. "It's not us."

(With House—explosive fights and even more explosive makeup sex. With Noah—rarely any conflict.)

"Come here," he said.

He held out his arms and she eagerly slid onto his lap.

"You're wearing my parka," he chuckled, putting his arms into the coat and around her waist.

"It's cold out here."

"It looks better on you than me," he said.

"It doesn't look good on anyone! I hate this parka," she said, laughing. "When did you buy it: 1986?"

"1989," he corrected with mock defensiveness. And they both laughed.  
"Wanna go coat shopping tomorrow?" she said.

"I'd love to," he replied.

######

Cuddy was driving home from work a few days later when she saw a motorcyclist stuck by the side of the road.

She knew almost instantly it was House—not just because she recognized his tall, lanky frame, but because _of course_ she'd run into him like this. Of course.

She thought about Noah's (unfounded?) jealousy and considered driving by, but that was ridiculous.

She pulled over.

He was standing over his bike with his hands on his hips, looking perplexed.

"What's the DDx on a stalled motorcycle?" she said teasingly, rolling down her window.

"In this case, operator error," House said. "Turns out, you're supposed to put gas in these things."

"Nice work, doctor," she said, chuckling.

"Shit," he said. "You are not witnessing me at my finest moment."

"You want to call Triple A?"

"No, I can't share my shame with another living human being. Especially a macho tow truck type. I'll buy gas and fill 'er up tomorrow."

"You want a road home?"

He squinted at her.

"Yeah?"

"Well, Noah would say that you conspired to run out of gas just so that I would pick you up and bring you home."

"Because what man doesn't want to be emasculated in front of the woman he wants to impress most?" House said.

Did he mean to say that, she wondered? Or had it just slipped out?

"Hop in," she said, unlocking the doors, and patting the passenger seat.

He sat down next to her. He smelled like House—leather and motorcycle oil and clean wind.

"Thanks Cuddy. I feel like you're always saving me. How many times are we up to now?"

"I lost track long ago," she said.

"According to the Chinese, when you save someone's life you're responsible for them."

"Good thing neither of us are Chinese then," Cuddy chuckled.

And they pulled out.

#####

They were quiet for a bit and then House finally said:

"I had lunch with Wilson today."

She did a doubletake.

"Eyes on the road there, partner.I don't mean I actually had lunch with him," House said. "I'm not losing it. I just ate lunch at his graveside."

"Oh," she smiled.

"I didn't talk to him or anything. I'm not a talk to the dead type. That was much more Wilson's speed. But I ate a sandwich, left some flowers. . . "

And them, before he ran the risk of sounding sentimental, he said: "You know, I thought it was appropriate to leave one more rotting, dying thing at the cemetary."

Cuddy smiled.

"Sounds nice, House," she said.

"Maybe you'll come with me one day."

"Maybe I will."

He sighed a bit. There was a long silence.

"Cuddy, did I ever tell you how sorry—how truly sorry—I was about what I did to you?"

_Here we go_.

"I guess I never gave you much of a chance," she admitted.

"Did you at least get my letters?"

"Yes. I did."

Handwritten letters from prison, on legal pad paper. Later, typed letters on PPTH stationery. Sometimes indecipherably scrawled notes on cocktail napkins. Then, after Noah answered the phone that one night, the letters—like the drunken phone calls—had stopped.

"So you know how sorry I am."

"I know House," she said.

Then, she glanced at him: "_Why_ are you sorry?"

Without meaning to, she was giving him a test.

"_Why_?"

"Yes, why."

"Because I hurt you," he mumbled. "Because I might've _physically_ hurt you—or someone else. Because. . .I wreaked havoc on your life."

She nodded sagely.

"Right answer," she said.

"What was the wrong answer?"

"Because it made me go away. Because it made me hate you. That would've been the selfish answer."

House toed the car floor with his motorcycle boot.

"_Did _you hate me?" he said.

"I thought I did," she admitted. "But I've recently come to realize that I could never really hate you, House. I was just angry."

"Good," he said. Then he scratched his head, chuckled ironically. "I used to want to spend the rest of my life with you. Now I'm just glad you don't think you hate me anymore."

They had reached his apartment. She cut the engine.

"Here we are!" she said, overly brightly.

But he wouldn't budge from his seat. He looked out the window.

"Do you ever. . . miss us?" he asked quietly.

"No," she lied.

"I do," he said. "I miss us all the time."

"I know. . ." she said.

"I miss Rachel, too," he said.

"I know. . ." she said, fighting back a tear.

Fuck House. Fuck him. She wasn't going to let him do this to her.

He jerked his head toward the apartment.

"You want to come inside for a bit? You saved my ass yet again. The very least you can do is let me fix you a drink."

"I. . .shouldn't. Noah will be expecting me soon. He's going back to St. Louis tomorrow."

_Why had she even said that?_

"Okay," House said. Then he smiled, sheepishly. "Thanks for the ride, boss."

He reached over and gave her a hug, which she hadn't expected. Her body tensed at first, but then she relaxed into his arms. His leather jacket crinkled when she hugged him.

When they parted, he didn't pull away. His face was inches away from hers—their lips almost close enough to kiss.

They sat frozen like that for a few moments, breathing on each other. His lips, his chin, his jaw. . .she had once memorized every inch of his sad, regal, beautifully imperfect face.

"Good night," House said finally, breaking the spell.

"Good night," she said.  
And she watched him get out of the car, limp up the stairs, and disappear into his apartment.

######

She debated whether or not to tell Noah about the ride.

The ride itself wasn't such a big deal—but the fact that every time she spent any time alone with House, they seemed to get closer and closer was. They had almost kissed in that car—she knew it and, of course, that meant so did House.

She decided not to tell Noah about House's motorcycle.

Instead, the next night, she drove him to the airport, gave him a long hug and kiss goodbye, scratched Sadie behind the ears, and promised herself that she'd stay away from House.

Two nights later, she was awakened by a phone call.

She looked at the phone.

2 a.m.

She bolted upright in bed. Back in her Dean of Medicine days she would assume a medical crisis. But CEOs kept (relatively) normal hours. This had to be bad news. Her mother?

"Hello?" she said anxiously.

"Is this Lisa Cuddy?"

"Speaking."

"This is Roy, the bartender over at Clyde's. I've got a friend of yours here, Greg House? I took his keys. He's far too inebriated to drive. He says you'll give him a ride home."

She hesitated.

"Can't you call him a cab?"

"He has no money."

"Okay," Cuddy said. "I'll take care of it. Thanks."

She hung up. Looked over at the empty pillow where Noah had been sleeping the night before.

Then she picked up the phone.

"Royal Cab Service?" she said. "I need you to pick up a friend of mine at a bar. Do you accept credit cards?"

######


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: First of all, thanks for all the love and support on this. You make me want to be a better writer. And message received loud and clear: You guys like multi-chapter fics. **

**Now, for those who think this story won't end up Huddy . . . have you _read_ my 82 other fics? **

**I feel like I have to obey a lot of different masters with these stories: The hardcore Cuddy fans, the hardcore House fans. The ones who think the breakup was her fault…the ones who think House is a monster, etc. etc.**

**To me, I think they are both deeply flawed human beings. I tend to blame Cuddy a bit more for the breakup but House's subsequent behavior certainly proved her right. I HATED HATED HATED Moving On, but I'm just trying to, uh, move on.**

**I see House and Cuddy as a beautiful, eternal, fucked up, "perfectly imperfect" love story. In my mind, they're meant to be together. That's how I'm always going to see them. That's why I write about them. If you feel differently, at some point, you're going to part ways with my fics.**

**As for this particular fic, we've reached a turning point, as you're about to see. . .I have some vague idea of where I'm going from here, but it's not set in stone. In other words, if you have ideas, now might be the best time to leave them. **

**xo**

**ATD**

"You can't go in there!"

Cuddy looked up from her desk and saw House limping, rather briskly, into her office, as her assistant, Barbara, charged after him.

"He just blew past my desk!" Barbara sputtered to Cuddy.

"It's okay," Cuddy said, shaking her head. "He can stay."

House gave Barbara an elaborate, princely bow.

Then he surveyed Cuddy's new office, with a low whistle.

"So this is how the other wing lives," he said. "You could stage a bitchin' monster truck rally in here."

"What do you want, House?"

He peered at her.

"Straight to business, huh?"

He reached into his pocket, pulled out two somewhat crumpled $10 bills and placed them on her desk.

"For the cab last night."

"Not necessary House."

"Absolutely necessary," he countered. "Let it never be said that Gregory House does not pay in full when his attempts to be alone with a beautiful woman instead end up with him alone with Dabir, the Ethiopian cab driver."

She folded her arms.

"So you _admit_ you were trying to be alone with me?" she said.

"Well, that and I was completely fucked up," he said. "Driving would NOT have been pretty."

She regarded him closely.

"And judging by your eyes, you shouldn't be driving today either."

"Hair of the dog," he said, with a shrug.

"House, you can't keep burning both ends like this," she said.

"I'm fine," he said. "You forget I have years of practice."

Then he looked at her somewhat sulkily.

"I was actually surprised you didn't come get me last night yourself."

"And do what with Rachel?" Cuddy said. "Drag her along for another late night rescue mission?"

"Oh. . . " he said. "I forgot."

"How convenient of you to forget my child."

"I wasn't at my . . . sharpest. . . I guess I just needed someone to talk to."

She looked at him. It wasn't just the bills. Everything about him looked crumpled.

"House, you're spending too much time alone," she said.

"Actually, Dabir and I got quite close."

She ignored him.

"Are you talking to anyone? A therapist? A . . .friend?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm seeing a doctor this afternoon," House said.

Cuddy looked up at him, relieved.

"Nolan?" she said.

"No, Wilson. James Wilson. We're having another one of our famous graveside lunches. Wanna come?"

The thought of House having lunch at Wilson's grave—just as they had eaten together so many times in the cafeteria—made her heart want to shatter into tiny bits. But she couldn't get sucked into his neediness. She'd made a promise.

"I can't today," she said. "Maybe some other time."

"Okay," he said, hurt. "Suit yourself. I'll tell Wilson you couldn't be bothered."

####

Two days later, Cuddy was coming out of a meeting with Foreman when she bumped right smack into House in the clinic.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, incredulously.

"Getting my annual flu shot," he said. Then he gave her an amused look. "What do you think I'm doing? It's a clinic. I'm a doctor. I have a duty."

"Foreman has talked you into _clinic duty_?" Cuddy said. "I'm impressed."

"Naaaa, this is strictly a 'when I'm in the mood' type deal."

"House, you're never in the mood."

"What? I'm _always _in the mood," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"I meant for clinic duty," she said.

"Me too," he said, grinning.

Could he have glimpsed at Foreman's dayplanner? Known that she would be in the clinic? (Of course he could have. He was House.)

"Well, carry on, House," she said. "No stuffy nose or herpes outbreak waits for our small talk."

And she started to walk away.

"Your ass is looking particularly bootylicious today, boss," he said.

She turned, more surprised than offended.

"Sorry. I was feeling nostalgic."

She snorted a bit, but couldn't suppress a tiny smile. Those were the days. They just didn't know it at the time.

"Wait, Cuddy!"

He limped after her.

"A patient of mine gave me tickets. . .to, uh, a play. It's tomorrow night. I was wondering if you wanted to join me."

"House, a _play_? Really?"

They both knew what House really meant when he invited a woman to a play.

"Actually. . . I've got three tickets. It's a children's play. Pinocchio. I thought we could take Rachel."

Her mouth dropped open.

"House . . .you know I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because I have a boyfriend."

"So? It's not a date. It's an . . ."—he searched for the right word— "outing."

"Oh, that's much better," she said.

"I thought you said you wanted to be friends."

"I do want to be friends. Within reason. Going to a play with my ex boyfriend, even if Rachel does come along, is not within reason."

"Whatever," House said. Then he said, somewhat shyly: "Do you think maybe I could just take Rachel, on my own? I promise she won't end up on the side of a milk carton."

_He wants to take Rachel to the play._

(_Don't get sucked in, Lisa. . .don't get sucked in. . ._)

"No House. You've been doing drugs. You've been drinking to excess. Not a chance."

He swallowed hard. Nodded.

"I understand," he said.

Then he glanced into the clinic waiting room.

"Next," he said glumly.

#####

Four nights later, a phone call, about 9 pm.

When she picked up, Cuddy could hear clanging glasses, jumbled voices—the noisy merriment of a bar.

"Whatchya doin'?" House asked.

"Watching television," she said.

"Stop rotting your brain and come rot your liver instead. Join me at Clyde's for a drink."

"I can't House. Rachel is sleeping."

"Don't you have some do-good neighbor who can watch her?"

Of course she did, but that was besides the point.

"House, we talked about this already."

"Yes, we talked about me spending too much time by myself. Which is exactly why I'm calling you!"

"House, I can't. Look, I can see you in the hospital, we can talk on the phone, we can even attend social events together—public social events—but I can _not _have a drink with you in a bar."

"Then let's talk on the phone," he said.

"Okay," she said, uncertainly.

"What are you wearing?"

Of course.

"House, I'm hanging up. Please go home. I don't want the next 2 am phone call that I get to be from the hospital—or the morgue."

"Killjoy," he said. And hung up.

About three hours later, there was the all-too familiar sound of a cane rapping against her door.

"Shit," Cuddy muttered.

She opened it.

He was standing there, leaning against the doorframe, wearing an open wool overcoat over a blue Oxford shirt and jeans.

"You're afraid to be alone with me," he said.

"No," Cuddy said.

"We almost kissed, in your car, and you've been avoiding me ever since."

"Not true."

"Prove it, by letting me in."

"You're drunk," she said.

"Not that drunk," he said. He took a step toward her.

She backed up.

"Go home," she said.

"You're afraid to be alone with me," he repeated, taking another step forward. "Because you want me, just as much as I want you."

"House, stop."

But he kept walking toward her and she kept backing up, until she was practically pinned up against her own wall.

"Cuddy, do you have any idea what you do to me?" he whispered in her ear.

Her heart began fluttering in her chest.

"House. . ." she said.

"Do you have idea how much I want to fuck you?" he moaned.

He leaned forward, pressed against her a bit. Hs breath was hot on her neck. She could feel his erection against her leg.

"I know you, Cuddy," he said, skimming his finger over her blouse, over her right breast. "I know that you're as wet right now as I am hard."

She involuntarily shuddered a bit. Of course, he was right. One single finger over her bra and she was practically panting with desire.

"Stop it, House."

"Stop what? This?" And he kissed her softly on the hollow of her throat. "Or this?" And he kissed her mouth. Reflexively, her lips parted, just the tiniest bit, letting in the tip of his tongue.

"House, no. . ." But with less conviction this time.

"Yes," he said, cupping her face and kissing her mouth again. This time, his whole tongue was probing her mouth—oh God, she'd always loved his tongue—and she was beginning to lose her center of gravity.

"I don't . . .want to cheat on Noah," she said, pathetically.

"Fuck Noah," he said.

And then he kissed her again, not gently this time, but urgently, recklessly, slamming her up against the wall. And she found herself reaching under his coat, under his shirt—groping desperately for skin. Her hands had made it to where the top of his jeans met his bare waist and she was thinking that his body was so different from Noah's—so lean and coiled and muscular.

And in that moment, she knew that he had won. That wanted him in the worst way. That she was going to give in to temptation. That she was going to cheat on Noah.

His mouth had migrated from her lips to her throat to her chest and he was unbuttoning her shirt, ravenous, a man possessed, and all she could muster was one final word, a single syllable, more like a plea:

"_Please_," she said.

His mouth had already made it to the fleshy part of her breast and his dick was so hard against her thigh it was almost painful, and he was already panting himself.

But he stopped, frozen for a moment, the two sides of his very nature fighting for dominance. . .and then he reeled backwards, as though someone had punched him.

"Fuck!" he said loudly. Not really to her. Not to anyone in particular.

"Fuck!" he repeated.

And he grabbed his cane and stormed out of her house.

#####

"You can't go in there!"

Barbara again, chasing House as he limped into her office.

"It's okay, Barbara," Cuddy said, rolling her eyes.

She looked up at House and remembered his mouth on her breast, his tongue in her mouth last night. She felt herself, unexpectedly begin to blush. She composed herself.

"What do you want?" she said, once Barbara was out of ear shot.

"I want to apologize," he said.

"Apology not accepted," she said.

"I know. My behavior was unacceptable."

"Ya think?"

"I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing right now. I'm out of control."

He was trying to soften her with confessions, but it wasn't going to work.

"I need you to get out of my office House. I can't see you right now."

"I know. That's actually _why_ I'm in your office."

"What?" He was making no sense.

"I came her to tell you that asked Foreman for another leave of absence this morning, and he agreed to it."

She was stunned.

"So you're running away," she said. "I speak from experience when I say, running away doesn't solve your problem, it only delays it."

He looked at her. His eyes were surprisingly clear.

"I know that. But I can't stay here right now. For your sake—and for mine."

"So where are you going? Vegas? Reno? Graceland?"

Even through her anger, she feared for House on his own. Without Wilson, without her, she was actually afraid he might commit suicide.

"I'm going back to Mayfield," he said.


	9. Chapter 9

"This is the Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. Do you accept a collect call from Gregory House?"

Cuddy looked down at her phone in shock for a second, then glanced at Julia, who was sitting across from her at the kitchen table doing a crossword puzzle.

"I, uh, need to take this in the other room," she said, going into her sister's master bedroom and closing the door behind her.

"Yes, I accept."

"Way to leave me hanging there, Cuddy."

She smiled. He sounded good—healthy.

It had been two weeks since House had left for Mayfield and, although she'd tried to busy herself—taking Rachel to the zoo, reorganizing her guest closet, meeting friends for dinner— she'd thought of little else since. (Any of the anger she felt toward him had dissipated the instant he said he was checking himself in to the hospital. In the end, who had she really been angry at: House for seducing her? Or herself for being so easily seduced?)

"You okay?" she said now.

"I'm fine," he said. "I'm done with the ripping through my shackles stage of my recovery. Now I'm less Incredible Hulk, more Bruce Banner."

"Who?" she said.

"Bruce Banner? The Hulk's alter ego? . . . You won't like me when I'm detoxing?. . . Nothing?"

"I guess I need to bone up on my comic book characters."

"Heh. You said bone."

She chuckled. Back to his old self.

"So you're really okay?"

"I'm fine. The first week sucked. I was 'potentially violent to myself and others'—and that's a direct quote. Those are always good times. . ."

"House, I'm sorry. . ."

"But now I'm free to roam with the schizos, the paranoids, the obsessive compulsives, the borderline personalities—in other words, my people."

"And Nolan?"

"Very disappointed that he had to slide me from the Success column to the Epic Fail column, but he'll get over it."

"You're not an epic failure!" she said. "Addicts relapse. It's not a reason to be down on yourself."

"Relapsing is one thing. Relapsing, committing a violent crime, going to prison, and losing everyone you love—is there a phrase stronger than epic failure? Apocalyptic failure?"

"House. . ."

"Look, the therapy is going fine. We're talking a lot about needing to love myself more—if you can imagine such an ego-inflated creature—and we also talk about. . ." —he hesitated for a second—"Wilson."

"Good House. I'm glad it's going well. I. . .miss you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I miss you too," he said, eagerly.

"Maybe I could come for a visit?" she said. It just sort of slipped out. Not visiting him in Mayfield the first time around was one of her bigger life regrets.

"I can't imagine anything that would make me happier," he said. "I assume this is a conjugal visit?"

"House!"

"Just a joke. I'm turning over a new leaf." Then, as though quoting something by rote: "'I accept that Noah is in your life and that you and I are just going to be really good friends.'" He chuckled a bit. "Pretty good, huh? And that's after just a week of therapy. Imagine how much of the high road I'll take once I've been here for a few months."

"You think it'll really take _that _long?"

"I'm _that _fucked up," he said, sighing a bit. Then his voice brightened: "So, about that visit. . ."

"I need to clear my schedule, juggle a few commitments. Does next Tuesday work?"

"I'll have to cancel a very important staring in to space and doing nothing session I had planned. But yes. I think I'll be able to clear my schedule, too."

"Good."

"I'm going to make one of those prison-style calendars and start marking off the days—or maybe I'll get a tattoo."

"It's just six days from now."

"Guaranteed six longest days of my life."

###

After they hung up, she went back to the kitchen table. Her coffee had gotten cold, but she took a sip anyway, just to appear normal.

It didn't work.

"Who was that?" Julia said, knowingly.

"Work," Cuddy said.

"Uh, nice try, sis. You don't take work calls in the master bedroom with the door closed. And you don't look positively flushed when you get off the phone. . .Was that Noah?"

Cuddy looked down at her coffee cup.

"Actually, it was House."

"_House?_ I thought they sent him back to the loony bin."

"It's a psychiatric hospital. And he wasn't _sent _back—he checked himself in."

"Oh that makes it so much better. Why are you even talking to him?"

Cuddy held the mug of coffee in her hands but didn't drink from it.

"If you must know, we almost slept together," she whispered. Her lowered voice was unnecessary. The kids were in the other room playing some sort of Dance Party game on the Wii.

Julia looked stunned.

"_What?_ Like, in a padded cell or something?"

"No, not _at_ the hospital—and by the way, you've been watching way too many medical dramas. At my house, before he left."

"You say _almost_ slept together. So you didn't. This can still be fixed."

"No, House did the gallant thing and backed off . . ."

"Oh, he's a real Prince Charming."

"But I wanted too, Jules. I mean, he was one unzipped pair of jeans away from fucking me up against a wall."

Julia turned a bit red. Of the two sisters, she was the more prudish one, the one less likely to discuss her sex life.

"But Lis, why? I thought things were going so well between you and Noah," she said.

"They were," Cuddy said, unconvincingly.

"So why are you dry humping your ex against a wall?"

Cuddy smiled a bit to hear her sister talking like that.

"Because he's. . . in my heart, Jules."

"I think he's in a different part of your anatomy."

"It's not just about sex. I mean, yeah, _a lot_ of it is about sex. But I love him, Jules. In a way, I never stopped loving him."

Julia shook her head sadly.

"You know, after you broke up with him, I could tell you never really got him out of your system," she said. "But I kinda thought the whole _vehicular manslaughter_ thing was going to put an end to that."

"I did, too," Cuddy admitted. "And it worked for a while. Out of sight, out of mind. But then I moved back here—and then Wilson died, and I felt this need to look after him. And then I realized that I was always going to want to look after him. And suddenly all these old feelings flooded back."

"But what about Noah? He's such a solid, decent, _emotionally stable_ guy. And he loves you and Rachel so much."

"I know," Cuddy said, biting her lip.

"So what's the problem?"

"Noah was there for me when I was at my lowest. He was my rock, my anchor. And I'll never forget that."

"You're speaking of him in the past tense," Julia said nervously.

"It's just that, being around House—I feel different. House makes me feel smarter, sexier, stronger—like I can run through walls. He. . . excites me."

"You know Lisa, not every guy is going to be as exciting as Gregory House—and that's a _good_ thing."

"I know. . ."

"You're confused. Maybe House's little stint in the insane asylum—"

"_Psychiatric hospital_. . ."

"Maybe his little stint in the psychiatric hospital is just what the doctor ordered. It'll give you a chance to regroup, get your priorities in order, think about your future."

"Actually, I think that's why he went."

"Huh?"

"I mean, he left to get clean and work through his grief over Wilson. But I think he also left because he knew that if he stuck around he was going to ruin things between me and Noah."

"Most selfless thing he's ever done."

"I'm just not sure it's what I want."

######

She didn't mark off the days on a calendar—or get a tattoo—but Cuddy did find herself looking forward to Tuesday more than she thought possible. And then it suddenly occurred to her—in all the months that she and Noah had been apart, she had never looked forward to his visits like this.

And that was when she knew.

He called her the next day, ostensibly to plan his upcoming visit.

"There's a 9:30 flight that gets in at 1:45 or a 3:30 flight that gets in at 8:30," he said. "Which works better for you?"

There was a long pause.

"Noah, I don't think you should come," she said finally.

"Why not? Crazy at work?"

"No. . . I . . .uh. . ."

"Spit it out, Lis. You're scaring me."

"I think we should take a break."

"A break? All we do is take a break. We live 1,200 miles away from each other."

"I know. . .but. . I'm just not sure if this long distance thing is working out for me."

She heard the crinkle of a leather chair as he sat down heavily. She could picture exactly where he was—in his home office that was filled with old things: Antiques lamps, an antique rug, even antique, leather-bound books. The only modern thing was the laptop, sitting on the desk, giving off a strangely futuristic glow.

She could hear him breathing. But he didn't speak.

"Noah?" she said.

"This is about him, isn't it?" he said.

Cuddy swallowed. She didn't want to lie to him.

"Not entirely," she said.

"Translation: Yes."

"He's part of it, yes. But it's more than that. I care about you so much, Noah. . .I even love you. . ."

"But you're not _in love_ with me. You don't burn for me the way you do for him. . ."

"It's not like that."

"Did you sleep with him?" A trace of bitterness had crept into his voice.

"No," she said, quietly, firmly.

"But you wanted to."

What was the kinder thing to do? To tell the truth? Or to tell a white lie?

"I don't know what I want," she said.

"Lisa, you're making a mistake."

"Maybe I am. But I can't be with you Noah. Not when I still have feelings for another man. It's not fair to you. And it's not fair to me."

"So sleep with him. Get him out of your system. And then come back to me. Come home."

_He is my home_, Cuddy thought, but didn't say.

"Noah. . .this has nothing to do with you. You are a remarkable man. You are kind and smart and loving—"

"Shut up!" he bellowed, with an anger that surprised her. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Don't patronize me!"

"I'm not Noah. I'm not. I'm so sorry. . ."

"You were lost when I first met you, do you remember that? You were depressed, flailing. Together, we helped you climb out of that morass. Do you remember that?"

"Yes," she said quietly, closing her eyes.

"And now you're going back to the source of that darkness?"

"I never said that."

"You're going subject yourself, your _daughter_ to this violent, unstable, drug-addled man? Do know what that is, Lisa? That's sick."

"I'm sorry," she said. Her eyes were pooling with tears.

"You deserve each other," he said.

And hung up.

#####

She felt terrible about breaking it off with Noah like that. But at the same time, it was like a tremendous weight had lifted off her shoulders. She didn't know where things would lead with House. She only knew that she wanted him and that he wanted her. But would his recovery take? Would she be willing to let him back into her life, into Rachel's life? If they did get back together, would she be less judgmental this time? More accepting of his flaws? Would they be able to talk more? Not run away from their problems? Not lash out at each other?

One thing she knew for certain: She was finally able to explore her feelings for him. She was finally free.

The phone rang.

"This is the Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. Do you accept a collect call from Gregory House?"

She frowned. Her visit with him was in two days. She hadn't expected to hear from him. What could this be about?

"I'm sure you'll get the hang of this eventually," she heard House say, as if from a distance.

"Yes, I accept the charges," she said hastily.

"Atta girl."

"Why are you calling? Is everything okay?"

"Actually . . . no. Turns out I'm not allowed to receive visitors. And by visitors, I mean you."

"What?" She tried not to let the disappointment register in her voice. "Why?"

"Nolan thinks it would be counterproductive to my recovery," House said. She could almost hear him rolling his eyes.

"Are you sure? I was really looking forward to seeing you."

"Me too. Apparently a little _too_ much. Because Nolan got the ridiculous idea that I was focusing all of my recovery on you. His exact words were: 'You can't use Cuddy as a crutch.' So naturally I accused him of making a gimp joke. But sadly, he has no sense of humor. He thinks I need to focus on myself, not you."

"I guess that makes sense," Cuddy said reluctantly.

"I think it's complete bullshit, frankly. But you know how stubborn shrinks are—after all, you're dating one."

She wanted to tell him that she had broken things off with Noah, but now suddenly didn't seem like the right time.

"I don't want to do anything that will stand in the way of your recovery," she said.

"Thanks," he said. "I guess I'm just going to have to tough it out on my own."

"I'll see you when you get back?"

"You'll be the first person I call. Well, second person. I'll probably called New Jersey Gas and Electric to get my heat turned back on."

"Good luck, House."

"Thanks Cuddy. I'll need it."

######

Four months later, she heard from Foreman that House had returned to the hospital.

It had been a rough time for Cuddy. Noah had not taken the breakup well. He'd gone through all the stages of grief—the denial stage featured a marriage proposal; the bargaining phase involved a suggestion that he move his practice to New Jersey; and the anger stage had him lashing out so viciously, it left her in tears. But he finally seem to have accepted that they were over.

Julia, however, was less understanding.

"You're an idiot," she said.

"Thanks for all the support, sis," Cuddy had replied dryly.

Now, upon hearing the news of House's return, Cuddy made her way happily to his office. She was practically skipping down the hall, but she didn't care. She was dying to see him.

He was sitting at his desk, looking at a file. (Typical House, right back to his puzzles.) He was wearing a royal blue shirt, open slightly at the neck to reveal that reddish patch of skin she had always fetishized about. His hair was short, but not as closely cropped as last time. It seemed a bit lighter, too, as if he had been spending a lot of time in the sun.

He went to pick up the phone, started to dial.

"Hey! I thought I was the first person you were going to call."

He saw her. Hung up the phone. His face broke into a huge grin.

"Would you believe I was calling you?" he said.

"Fat chance," she said, grinning back.

He stood up, and they hugged for a long time. It was so good to feel his body against hers. She kissed his neck.

"You look good, House," she said, when they parted.

"I feel good," he said. "My liver is so pristine you could eat off of it."

"I love a man with a pristine liver."

They beamed at each other.

Then there was an unexpectedly awkward silence, which was finally ended by House.

"So. . .how ya been? How's Noah?" he said.

He was trying to be mature. It suddenly reminded her of the time he had dedicated that gift—her grandfather's book—to "Lisa and Lucas." Such an uncharacteristically sweet, formal gesture.

"Actually," she looked at the floor. "Noah and I broke up."

His mouth dropped open.

"You're kidding," he said. For some reason, he looked less than thrilled over this news.

"Hey babe, I parked my bike next to yours if that's okay." It was a female voice, raspy and deep, not at all familiar.

Cuddy turned. A very pretty woman—mid 30s, long, straight, dirty blonde hair, wearing a leather jacket and motorcycle boots—was standing in House's doorway.

"Hey," she said, nodding, when she noticed Cuddy.

"Hey," Cuddy said back, skeptically.

"Cuddy," House said, gulping a bit. "I want you to meet Rhonda. She's my. . .girlfriend."


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks to those who have stuck with this. We're coming down the home stretch. . .**

Rhonda looked Cuddy up and down, in a brazen sort of way.

"So you're her, huh?" she said.

Cuddy glanced at House for a second.

"I'm Dr. Cuddy. I'm the CEO of this hospital," she said, uncertainly.

"Right," Rhonda said, nodding.

House squirmed a bit.

"Rhonda, do me a favor and give us a second?" he said. "I'll meet you in the cafeteria."

"No problem," Rhonda said, backing up. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Cuddy." She said Cuddy's name in such a way that it sounded like a provocation.

"You left Noah?" House blurted out when she was gone.

"That's your _girlfriend_?" Cuddy said, almost at the exact same time.

House folded his arms, looked at her.

"You left Noah?" he repeated, more softly this time.

"Yes," she said.

"Why?"

The air still smelled a bit from Rhonda's perfume—spicy and musky, like burning incense.

"The. . .long distance thing wasn't working out," she said.

House peered at her, in that penetrating way of his.

"And that's the only reason?" he said.

She couldn't believe this was happening. Couldn't believe she had actually deluded herself into thinking she and House might be able to rebuild something together. When would she learn? She was a complete and total idiot.

"Why else?" Cuddy said.

"I don't know. . ." he said. "I thought maybe. . ."

"So. . ._Rhonda_?" she interrupted.

He sighed.

"We met at Mayfield."

"Dumb move," she said. Addicts who were in treatment were supposed to avoid relationships. It was one of the many reasons Nolan had advised House to steer clear of Cuddy.

"People in mental institutions are not always known for their sound judgment," he said.

"So what's her story?" Cuddy said. But she already had a sense. Rhonda was a type: A cut-off jean shorts and biker boots type. A blue nail polish type. The kind of girl who used to smoke cigarettes in the boy's room and shun straight-A-student Cuddy in high school.

"She's a DJ at WTKK," House said, referencing the local classic rock station.

Of course.

"Her listeners think she was gone the past three months because she was following the Stones on tour," he said.

"And her real reason?"

"Cokehead with a side order of, um, impulse control issues."

"Impulse control, huh?" Cuddy said. "Then you two should get along famously."

"I've been known to control certain impulses," House said, pointedly.

Cuddy flinched a bit. How dare he reference their final night together?

"I should go," she said hastily. "You don't want to keep Rhonda waiting."

"She won't mind," House said.

"Well, I do. It's rude. Besides, I have work to do. I was just coming to see if you were okay."

"I'm okay," he said quietly. "Are you?"

"I'm fine."

"So when can I see you?" he said.

"You're seeing me right now," she replied.

"I mean, spend time with you—alone."

"I don't know House. We work in the same hospital, we're bound to bump into each other."

And she strode out.

#####

The day that House called Cuddy and told her he wasn't allowed to receive visitors, he had gone to sit outside on his favorite bench and stew. It was far enough from the hospital to at least give the illusion of being secluded. Besides, even folks at Mayfield knew it was best to avoid House when he was in a foul mood.

Except on this particular day, that pretty youngish woman from group therapy sat down on the bench next to him.

"Who stole your happy pills?" she said.

"What?" House said, annoyed.

"For a guy on anti-depressants, you look pretty fucking depressed."

"How do you know I'm on anti-depressants?"

"It's a mental hospital. We're all on anti-depressants."

House shrugged.

"Bad day," he said.

"Sorry," she said. "Will this help?"

And she pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket.

"Thanks," House said. He took one. She lit it for him.

"I'm Greg," he said.

"I know your name," she said, disdainfully. "You don't know mine?"

He peered at her.

"Not a clue," he admitted.

"We all state our names at the beginning of group therapy," she said.

"I'm bad with names."

"You don't listen because you think you're smarter than everyone else."

House raised an eyebrow. "Actually, I _know_ I'm smarter than everyone else."

"Booksmart, maybe," Rhonda said with a shrug. "But not real world smart. You should pay attention more often."

"Because there's so much to learn from a bunch of losers in a loony bin."

"_You're _in a loony bin, wiseguy."

"I didn't say people should listen to me either," he said.

And they both chuckled.

"Well, I'm Rhonda," she said, dangling the cigarette between her lips and holding out her hand. They shook. "So you gonna tell me the real reason you're so upset?"

House took a long drag of his cigarette.

"Girl trouble," he said.

"Ahhh," Rhonda said, perking up. "Now we're talking. Spill it."

"It's complicated," he said.

"Then give me the Cliff Note's version. I'm not that smart, as you've already pointed out."

"The woman I love is with another guy," he said.

"Is that all? That's never stopped me from going after a guy I wanted. Fight for her."

House gave a rueful smile.

"She's better off with him than she is with me," he said sadly.

"Jesus," Rhonda said. "Now you're depressing me."

"Trust me, it's the truth."

She gave him a slightly flirty look.

"You're not so bad," she said. "Super smart. Kinda grouchy. Hot, for an old guy. I've seen worse."

"I doubt that," House said. Then he looked at her, hoping to change the subject. "So what are you in here for?"

"A particular fondness for powdered donuts, minus the donut part, if you know what I mean," she said. And she rubbed her nose and sniffed a bit, in case House hadn't caught her drift. (He had.)

"That's rehab stuff," he said. "Not Mayfield stuff."

"Oh, believe me, I have other issues too: what the doctors are euphemistically calling _anger management _problems."

"Meaning?"

"I caught my ex with another woman and beat the crap out her—twice."

"Delightful."

"Hey, you asked."

House chuckled.

"You are the polar opposite of the woman I'm obsessing over."

"Maybe that's not such a bad thing," Rhonda said.

####

House and Rhonda started meeting regularly on the bench.

They played cards, they smoked cigarettes, they talked about motorcycles.

When he found out she was a classic rock DJ, they talked about that, too.

Rhonda quizzed him on classic rock.

"Name the three members of Cream."

"Ginger Baker, Jack Bruce, and Eric Clapton."

"Too easy," she said. "What name did early members of Pink Floyd go by before they met Syd Barrett?"

"The Tea Set," House said.

"Damn," she said, impressed. "Is there anything you don't know about?"

House shrugged.

It was cold out and she grabbed the wool cap House was wearing and put it on her head.

"Hey, that's mine," he said.

"I was cold. Besides, it looks better on me than it does on you."

He gave a half-smile. "I suppose it does."

That night, after midnight, she turned up in his room.

He had been asleep.

"Hey, old man," she whispered into the dark.

He opened his eyes, rubbed them, focused on her. "Hey," he said. "How did you get in here?"

There was no fraternizing among patients after 9 pm unless it was officially sanctioned—and certainly no late night visits allowed to each other's rooms.

"I caught the overnight nurse getting stoned in the supply closet," she said. "I'm currently blackmailing him."

As she was talking, she was casually taking off her clothing—as if this was something they had pre-arranged—until she was just dressed in a bra and underpants. She had small tits. She wore boy-style briefs. They were oddly alluring.

She climbed into bed, straddled him.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"What does it look like I'm doing," she said, placing his hands on her ass.

"You have the wrong idea," he said.

"Really?" she said, grinding up against him, with a chuckle. "Cause it kinda feels like I have the right idea."

"I'm not . . .I shouldn't. . ."

"Fuck shouldn't," she said, and took off her bra.

After that, she began showing up in his room every night. And between their days on the bench and their nights in his room having sex, House suddenly realized that he had a new girlfriend.

#####

"Ask me what's in this picnic basket."

House was standing in Cuddy's office, wielding an oversized basket. (At this point, Barbara didn't even bother to protest when he barged in without notice.)

It had been three weeks since House had been back at PPTH and he hadn't bumped into Cuddy at all—which was by design on her part.

She'd spied on him a couple of times with Rhonda in the cafeteria (Rhonda worked the morning drive shift at the radio station, so she was often free for lunch.) Seeing House interact with this free-spirited, rock and rollish woman made her feel vaguely ill. He seemed completely at ease in her presence, as if he didn't have a care in the world. It occurred to Cuddy that House had always been on edge when they were dating—as though he feared he would make some critical mistake, say or do something that would bring the whole relationship crashing down.

"You are such an asshole!" she overheard Rhonda say to him one day, laughing.

"And you love it," he said back, with a grin.

"What's in the picnic basket?" Cuddy said now, reluctantly.

"Duh. A picnic," he said.

"Okay, House. . . I'll play along. Why have you brought me a picnic?"

"Because you've been ignoring me—intentionally."

"I haven't. . ."

He gave her a look that suggested she shouldn't even bother protesting.

"Five months ago, you promised me that you'd accompany me on a picnic to Wilson's grave. Today, I've come to cash in on that promise."

"How do you know I don't already have lunch plans?" she said.

"Do you?"

"No," she admitted. "What about you? Stevie Nicks not around today?"

The corners of House's mouth twitched in a tiny smile.

"She's not invited," he said. "So what do you say?"

"I don't know, House."

"Wilson is going to start getting a complex," he said. Then he added: "So am I."

She sighed a bit, looked out the window.

"It _is_ a beautiful day out," she said.

"Now _that's_ what I'm talkin' about."

####

House laid out the picnic blanket—blue and white checks—and gestured for Cuddy to sit.

"I finally got her here, Wilson," he said out loud.

"I thought you didn't talk to dead people," she said.

"That was for your benefit," House replied, with a grin.

He began laying out the contents of his picnic basket like a surgeon laying out his tools: Plates, plastic cutlery, heavy paper napkins that matched the blanket.

"White wine?" he said, pulling out a bottle of pinot grigio.

"House, it's the middle of the day!"

He sighed, extravagantly. "The freedom of being the boss is always wasted on bosses."

"I know," she said apologetically. "But I can't. I have meetings later."

He smirked. "Which is why I also brought sparking water," he said. Then as an aside, as though to Wilson: "It was worth a shot, right pal?"

He poured two glasses of Pellegrino.

Then he reached into the picnic basket and pulled out two sandwiches, both wrapped in cellophane.

"That chicken salad with the apples from Wagner's," he said, handing it to her. "Plus, a Japanese pear and those horrible whole grain chips you pretend to like." He tossed her the bag.

"Hey, I do like those!" she said, catching it. She had to admit, she was flattered he had remembered all of her favorite things. But then again, that was House: He had studied her like it was his second job.

"It's nice out here, huh?" he said, taking a bite of his sandwich.

"Yes," she said, tilting her face toward the sun and closing her eyes.

She could feel House looking at her.

"You look pretty in this light," he said.

Her eyes popped open.

"Men with girlfriends shouldn't talk that way to women who . . . . _are not_ their girlfriend," she said, accusingly.

"Wilson won't say a word," House said. "Besides, I was merely stating an empirical fact. No one could fault me for that."

She chuckled.

"You're impossible."

"It's one of my best features."

She shook her head, but didn't reply.

"Cuddy?"

"Yeah House."

"There's a reason I wanted to bring you out here."

"You're a vampire?"

He laughed.

"Heh, no. Not technically."

"Then what?"

"At Mayfield, Nolan and I talked about you a lot."

She sensed a heavy conversation coming on. Wasn't sure she could handle it.

"You did?" she said tentatively.

"And we both agreed that . . ." He paused for a second, gathering himself: "We both agreed I might not be here it wasn't for you."

"Here, as in at this picnic?" she said, even though she knew that's not what he meant.

"Here, as in alive," he said.

"House, don't say that!"

"It's true," he said. "I might've gone to jail. I might've been in jail when my best friend died. . ."

"But you weren't."

"Thanks to you."

"That was nothing. Truly. Arthur Pope is a moron. Foreman, too, for that matter."

"Even if I hadn't gone to jail—even if I'd found a way around it—I'm a pretty resourceful guy, after all. . .We both know I might not have made it once Wilson died."

"Of course you would've. You're a fighter."

He looked at her.

"And you always gave me a reason to fight."

She met his gaze. She could always get lost in those deep blue eyes of his.

"And now you fight for Rhonda," she said, snapping out of it, remembering.

He swallowed.

"This isn't about her."

"What is it about then?"

He kicked at the grass with his tennis shoe.

"It's about saying thank you, that's all," he mumbled. "It's just about saying thank you to the most incredible woman I know."

She felt suddenly overcome with a kind of ineffable sadness.

"You're welcome," she said, and blinked back a tear.

#####


	11. Chapter 11

**One more chapter to go after this, kids. **

**Once again, special thanks to all of you who have left such positive and encouraging comments. I swear to God, things got so toxic around here yesterday, I was seriously thinking of shutting this fic down. So just know I wouldn't be able to finish this story without your words of support. (Thanks to my Twitter pals too, especially Maya, Anne, Vero, and Freya.)**

**And also thanks to those who have left _constructive criticism_. (Ahem.)**

**As for those people who apparently hate my fic's guts? Here's a thought: Stop. Reading. It. - atd**

A somewhat depressing thought had begun to eat away at Cuddy: Maybe there was a reason she and House were never on the same page. Maybe they really _weren't_ meant to be together.

When you considered it, she and House had spent almost 20 years circling each other—flirting, deflecting, secretly longing—before House had finally admitted his true feelings for her. But by then, of course, Lucas had been in the picture. (Ah, Lucas: Her grand, failed experiment at filling her heart with a lesser version of House).

Then, once she and House had actually hooked up, things had almost immediately gotten weird. It was like they were both so afraid the relationship would fail, so acutely aware that this was their one shot at happiness—they lost sight of the very things that had drawn them to each other in the first place.

After the breakup, the wedge between them grew—particularly with the arrival of that revolting Green Card hooker, the ultimate in ex-boyfriend revenge. And just as they were beginning to communicate again ("I felt hurt," House had said to her; literally the most vulnerable thing she'd ever heard him express out loud), the car crash took place, and the wedge turned into a chasm.

But still, somehow, irrationally—impossibly even—she'd found herself falling for him all over again. She broke up with Noah, the final roadblock (or so she thought). And then, like some sort of sick joke, Rhonda showed up.

On some level, Cuddy got it. She saw Rhonda for what she was: Free-spirited, a rule breaker, a bad girl—the anti-Cuddy.

She was the classic rebound relationship (just as Noah had been for her). But that didn't make it hurt any less.

#####

It had been a month since House's graveside confession, his uncharacteristically humble display of gratitude, and Cuddy found herself slowly softening toward him. They were talking, and even managing to enjoy each other's company again. They started having lunch together—first once a week, then a couple of times a week, finally almost every day. (She noticed that this new lunch schedule had corresponded with Rhonda coming around less and less. A coincidence?)

One day, House dunked a French fry in ketchup, looked down at the table, and said nonchalantly: "You think maybe I could hang out with Rachel some time soon? I kinda miss the little rugrat." The fact that he was trying to make his voice sound casual was how Cuddy knew he wanted it so badly.

Her mind flashed to that day four months ago at the clinic—the day he had offered to take Rachel to Pinocchio. She'd convinced herself he was working an angle, playing "the Rachel card," so to speak. But today was different. House had no reason to pretend he wanted to see Rachel. He was gaining no leverage, no upper hand. He was simply asking because he missed her.

"We'll see," she said. Rachel still asked about House from time to time, after all these years, but Cuddy wasn't sure _she_ was ready.

"No rush," House said evenly.

Rehab and therapy had given him a new virtue: Patience.

#####

That night, she got a phone call from Noah.

"Hey," she said, somewhat surprised. "What's up?"

"I spoke to Julia," Noah said cautiously. "She tells me House is . . seeing someone?"

That was Julia for you. Always butting her nose in where it didn't belong.

"That's true," Cuddy said.

"So does this change anything? Between us?"

Cuddy thought about it for a second, then realized it didn't.

"No Noah. I told you our breakup wasn't entirely about House."

"I know. I'm just saying. He's unavailable. I'm _very_ available. I mean, I'm 'on the next plane to Jersey' available."

She chuckled.

"That's pretty available," she said. "But. . .no. I'm sorry, Noah. It really is over between us, romantically at least."

"Do you at least have a date to the gala?" he said.

He was referring to a big party the board was throwing in her honor—it was her one year anniversary as hospital CEO.

"I'm going stag," she admitted.

"That's ridiculous. Let me at least come with you as a friend. The guest of honor should have a date."

It was true: The idea of attending that gala by herself was pretty unappealing. But it was probably best not to lead Noah on.

"That's okay," she said. "I'll manage."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I'm sure. But thanks for offering. It was very nice of you."

"That's me. The nice guy who finishes last."

_Second_, she thought. _You finished second_.

#####

The next day she asked House if he was coming to the gala.

"No and hell," he said. "Not necessarily in that order."

"I know you hate galas," Cuddy said.

"Hate is too mild a word. Loathe, detest, abhor, _abtest_ . ."

"That's not a word."

"That's how much I hate galas. You have to invent new words for how much I hate them."

She shrugged, somewhat sulkily. "I just thought maybe you'd want to come, what with me being the guest of honor and all."

"And a very well deserved honor it is. I'll send you a Mariachi band."

They both looked down at their plates. An ill-advised reference to one of their more notorious fights.

"Bad joke," House said.

She decided to let him off the hook.

"Flowers would suffice," she said.

"Consider it done."

####

The night of the gala, a large bouquet of flowers arrived in her office.

She expected them to be from House, so was surprised that the note read: "Knock em dead, beautiful. – Noah."

She smiled.

He was a good man. Ah, how much less complicated life would be if only she could love him the way she loved House.

Whatever. And if wishes were horses, she'd be riding one now. . . or however that expression went.

"You look wonderful, Dr. Cuddy."

She looked up.

It was Barbara, her assistant, standing in the doorway to her office.

"Ya think?" Cuddy said, wrinkling her nose.

"Only if you like perfection," Barbara said, admiringly.

Cuddy smiled.

She took one last glance at herself in the mirror—form-fitting champagne colored dress, red lipstick, just a few loose waves in her hair—not so bad if she said so herself.

#####

The gala was already in full force by the time she arrived. A small band was playing Count Basie and Duke Ellington tunes. A bartender mixed Manhattans and martinis. A veritable who's who of Princeton Plainsboro was there—doctors, their spouses, big ticket donors, pharmaceutical execs.

Of course, the crowd descended upon her eagerly: She was the main attraction.

She was sitting at a table with a few board members and their wives, which virtually guaranteed a dull night. She'd have to shake a lot of hands, make a lot of small talk about golf and the sales rack at Barney's, and dance with what House used to refer to as a lot of "dirty old men trying to cop a feel."

She was dancing with board treasurer Bob Whittaker—so far respectful and not too handsy—when she noticed a bit of commotion out of the corner of her eye.

Much to her shock, it was House. He was wearing a classic tuxedo—gorgeous as ever. But he wasn't alone. Rhonda was with him. She was part of the reason for the commotion. In a room of staid ballgowns, she was wearing a black micro mini dress that barely covered her hips_. _She was one strong breeze away from being an ALL NUDE GIRLS revue.

So he showed up after all, Cuddy thought.

She was, naturally, ambivalent as ever: Pleased that he had shown; dismayed that he was with her. But then again, of course he'd bring her. She was his girlfriend.

He immediately spotted Cuddy on the dance floor and gave a small salute. She waved at him.

After she finished her dance with Bob, House limped over to her table.

"Excuse me folks. Need to borrow the guest of honor for a second."

And without asking, he yanked Cuddy by the arm and led her to the bar.

"You look. . ._splendtacular_," he said, taking her in.

"That's not really a word."

"I know. You look so amazing I have to invent new words for how gorgeous you are."

She smiled. When House flirted with you, it was like you were the only woman in the world.

_Except for the woman in the skin tight mini dress he's currently sleeping with_, she reminded herself.

"Do you have a pen?" House asked.

"A pen?"

"Yeah. Pointy thing. Ink on the end?"

She furrowed her brow, but reached into her clutch and handed him a pen.

He grabbed a napkin off the bar and turned away from her.

He was scribbling something, covering his work with his arm, like he didn't want her to cheat off an exam.

Then he turned back and handed her the napkin: A crude, almost child-like drawing of a flower.

"For you," he said, with a slight bow. Then he whispered, conspiratorially: "Turns out, it's bad form to bring flowers for a woman who is not your date."

"I'll cherish it forever," she said, laughing. (She said it like it was a joke, but she actually knew that she would.)

"Don't make fun of me," he said.

"I'm not. Besides, the flowers were only for if you _didn't_ show up. You came."

"I couldn't stay away," he said. He leaned toward her: "Save a dance for me?"

"Of course," she said.

"Just know that I dance better when I'm drunk, so this promises to be truly pitiful."

He headed back to his table, where Rhonda was sitting with Foreman, Chase, and their dates. They all seemed to be having fun. Later, she watched House dance with Rhonda. Her bare leg was draped around his. She had to admit they were sexy together. Fuck. Her. Life.

Still, hard as it was to see him with this woman, a part of her felt strangely proud of him: Look at him, she thought. He's sober. He's dating someone. He's at a party actually enjoying himself. He's come a long way. (_I wouldn't have made it without you_, he had said that day at the cemetery.) In some perverse way, she felt like she was admiring her own handiwork.

"Can I dance with the lovely guest of honor?"

It was Ted Guinness, the newest board member.

She could almost tell just by looking at him that he had bad breath and his smile could charitably be called creepy.

"Sure Ted!" she said, with false cheer.

They moved to the dance floor. Within moments, his hands were on her back, then grazing the very top of her ass. He was just about to move out of the respectful zone, when a voice said:

"May I cut in?"

Saved by Gregory House.

Ted frowned a bit but was compelled to stand on ceremony.

"Of course," he said.

And House took over.

"Thank God," Cuddy said when Ted was out of earshot.

"Yeah, Grabby McHanderson was really going in for the kill," House said. "Poor guy. That was probably the biggest thrill he'd had in 25 years and I ruined it for him."

"And I thank you for it."

"Any time," he said.

They started to dance. Something about the familiar feel of his arms around her, the way their bodies perfectly fit, the way they found a rhythm, even with his bad leg, even surrounded by all these curious eyes, was making her feel strangely melancholy.

He must've felt the same way, because he pulled her closer. And suddenly it wasn't a formal dance between two friendly colleagues, it was something more intimate and tender.

"All this is for you," he whispered in her ear. He was talking about the party.

"I can't believe it," she whispered back.

"I can," he said.

And she closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder.

#####

After the dance, she went to the ladies room. When she got out, Rhonda was there, leaning against the sink. She smelled of smoke.

Tough girl in the bathroom, Cuddy thought. She really _was_ having high school flashbacks.

"Are you fucking him?" Rhonda said, with a bit of a snarl.

"I beg your pardon?" Cuddy said, taken aback.

"It's a simple question: Are you fucking him?"

"I assume you're talking about House? In that case, no. Now excuse me, I want to wash my hands."

"I saw you two on the dance floor," Rhonda said, not budging.

"We danced. We're friends."

"You didn't look like friends. You looked like two people who were fucking."

_At least my dress leaves something to the imagination_, Cuddy thought, but didn't say.

"I'm sorry if it looked that way, but I assure you, there's nothing going on between us."

Rhonda nodded.

"Good," she said. "Keep it that way."

"Can I wash my hands now?" Cuddy said, testily.

Rhonda moved enough so that Cuddy could get to the sink.

"Cleanliness is next to godliness," she said, mockingly.

Then she added: "You think you're so perfect don't you?"

"Hardly."

"Sure you do. With your fancy dress and your fancy friends and this big fancy party thrown in your honor."

Cuddy squirted some soap in her hands, ignored her.

"But I know your type," Rhonda continued. "You pretend to be Miss Goody Two Shoes while you're secretly gunning for someone else's man."

Oh, that was rich, Cuddy thought. _Her _man.

"I'm not gunning for anyone," she said.

"Save it," Rhonda snapped. "Just back off, okay? You had your shot and you blew it. Turned him into a basket case in the process, too. Sent him to the frickin' loony bin."

"I didn't send him. . .!"

"Didn't you?" Rhonda interjected, shaking her head.

Cuddy felt strangely defensive.

"Believe me, House had plenty of problems before he met me. . ."

"And now he's finally doing better. _Without_ you. So keep it that way. I'm only going to say this once: Back the fuck off."

"Are you threatening me?" Cuddy said, glaring at her.

"Put it to you this way," Rhonda said. "Ask Greg what I was in Mayfield for."

And she winked and left the bathroom.

#######

A week later, House joined Cuddy for lunch in the fancy new wing cafeteria.

(He preferred the old cafeteria, because they at least sold hamburgers and hotdogs. The new wing was "one giant bean sprout," House complained.)

House was eating a turkey burger, but he didn't look happy about it.

"I need a favor," he said.

"Shoot," she said.

"Have you heard about this James Wilson Scholarship Fund thing?"

She had heard, of course. A bunch of Wilson's old patients had gotten together to create a fellowship program in his honor.

"Yes," Cuddy said. "It's a wonderful tribute."

"Yeah. . .well, they asked me to give them some photos of Wilson for the brochure."

"And you need help making the selections?" she said.

This was a healthy impulse on his part: Definitely not something he should be doing on his own.

"If you don't mind," House said.

"Absolutely," Cuddy said. "I tell you what: Why don't you come over for dinner on Friday night? You've been wanting to see Rachel anyway. We can all eat together and then you and I can go through the photos after she's gone to bed."

"Really?" House said. He was so delighted by this prospect, he couldn't even keep his trademark cool.

"Really," she said.

Then a somewhat disconcerting thought crossed her mind:

"House?" she asked. "When you said that Rhonda had 'impulse control' issues, what exactly were you talking about?"

House shook his head.

"You don't want to know," he said wryly.

"Actually, I do."

"She beat the shit out of these two women she thought were sleeping with her ex."

And Cuddy gulped.


	12. Chapter 12

**Okay kids: We've reached the end of our saga.**

**A few things: Those who have read The Three of Them might recognize a few lines here or there. Sorry, I liked those lines.**

**Also, sorry if this gets a little shmoopy toward the end. I figured after all that angst, we needed a big cheesy Huddytastic ending.**

**And finally, thanks for all your support on this story. It's been a unique, occasionally upsetting, sometime surreal, but ultimately rewarding experience. And I thank you all (okay, most of you, heh) SO MUCH for your encouragement and kind words. xo, atd  
**

At exactly 7 p.m., House arrived at Cuddy's door, awkwardly balancing a very large brown box that was crammed with photographs.

"That's a mighty big box you've got there," Cuddy cracked.

"Wilson was apparently photographed more often than Lady Di," House said, sighing heavily.

She ushered him in, took the box out of his hands, and put it on the coffee table.

Then they both stood there stiffly for a moment, not quite knowing what to say.

"So you made it," Cuddy said finally.

"I made it," he agreed.

They were, of course, both thinking the exact same thing: That the last time House had been in Cuddy's new home was the night of Wilson's funeral. He'd been shivering, drenched, barely coherent.

Now Cuddy gave him a reassuring smile.

"I'll get Rachel," she said.

Earlier that day, she and Rachel had a talk:

"Hey Rach, so you know how you're always asking about House?"

"Uh huh."

"Would you like it if he came over for dinner tonight?"

"_Really?_" Rachel said, excited.

Cuddy smiled.

"Yeah, really."

"Yay!" she said, giving her mother a hug.

Rachel even picked out a special outfit for the occasion—not that House was the type to notice or care—hot pink and blue striped leggings, with a frilly pale pink tutu, yellow rain boots, and a green sweatshirt with a pink glitter heart on it (she was going through a serious pink and glitter phase).

"Is he here yet? Is he here yet?" she kept asking.

"Not yet sweetie-pie. Go play in your room. It'll make the time go faster."

Still, despite her daughter's excitement, Cuddy expected Rachel to hang back shyly—after all, it had been more than 3 years since she'd last seen House, and she was going through a bit of a self-conscious stage, where she was acutely aware of people's "otherness."

Instead, she charged out of her room and made a beeline straight for House.

"House!" she yelled giddily and slammed into his leg with a bear hug. (His good leg—she remembered.)

House looked a bit stunned for a second. He hugged her back and patted her head. Then he held her at arm's length, as if to get a good look at her. Cuddy could swear he had tears in his eyes.

"Hey, stretch," he said finally.

"Stretch?" Rachel said, wrinkling her nose.

"He means because of how tall you've gotten."

It was true. She had sprouted up in the past year or so—she had lost that pudgy baby fat, too. She was all limbs and angles.

"Soon I'm going to be taller than mama!" Rachel boasted, straightening her shoulders a bit.

"That shouldn't be too hard," House said. "Mama's a hobbit."

"Hey, I'm 5-4-and-a half!" Cuddy said.

"When you have to add the half, you know you're short," House teased.

Cuddy shook her head.

"Why don't you two giants play in Rachel's room while this lilliputian finishes dinner, okay?" she said.

"Follow me," Rachel said, proud to show off her new digs.

"Cool outfit," Cuddy heard House say to her as they walked down the hall.

#####

When dinner—this chicken enchilada casserole that both House and Rachel were fond of—was ready, Cuddy headed to Rachel's room.

"Soup's on," she said.

House and Rachel were sitting on the floor, playing cards.

"Hit me!" Rachel was saying.

"You sure about that?" House replied.

"You're teaching her blackjack?" Cuddy said, slightly alarmed. "Isn't she a little young for that?"

"It's a counting game. It's educational. Watch this."

He held up one of Rachel's cards: "How many diamonds on this card?"

"Eight!"

House arched an eyebrow and smirked in a told-you-so way to Cuddy.

"How many hearts on this card?"

"Nine!"

"Good. And what do you get when you add them together?"

"89!"

Now it was Cuddy's turn to smirk.

"Actually, 17," House said, slightly annoyed. "You sure you want another card?"

"Hit me!" Rachel repeated with glee.

"Okay. . ." House said, skeptically. He pulled a card out of the deck: A six of clubs.

"Six plus 17 equals twenty three. You went over. You lose," he said.

Rachel began to pout.

"I'll give you a rematch next time, stretch," House said. "I'm starving. Let's eat."

#####

House was in fine form at dinner, making Rachel laugh so hard, milk bubbles came out of her nose. But she was making him laugh, as well. It was clear how much they loved each other.

Rachel had loved Noah, too, of course. But in a different way. There was that wall between them—the grown-up/child wall. Noah, for example, would never let Rachel lose at cards. He would secretly pull a winning card out of his back pocket, or create some new rule that said only six-year-old girls named Rachel were allowed to go over 21. But it was precisely _because _House let Rachel lose at cards that she loved him. He saw her as a playmate, not a creature to be handled and patronized.

Also, seeing them interact together—mutually agreeing on the ickiness of kale; laughing over the word "fard" (it meant face paint, apparently)—Cuddy had the same thought she'd had several times when she and House were dating: Rachel looks like she could be his biological child. _Our_ child.

She snapped out of her reverie when she noticed the time.

"Hate to break up the party," she said. "But it's bedtime, stretch." She was amused by House's new nickname for her.

"Awwww, mom. Five more minutes!" Rachel protested.

"Sorry, Rach. It's getting late. But maybe House can be talked into reading you your bed time story?"

"For a nominal fee," House joked.

And he led Rachel by her hand into her bedroom.

He was gone for a long while. When he came out, he looked happier than she'd seen him in months.

"She managed to get three stories out of me!" he said. standing next to Cuddy at the sink and grabbing a dish to dry. "She's such a little operator."

"She missed you, too, House," Cuddy said.

####

After the table was cleared and the dishes were dry, it was time to get down to business.

"You ready for this?" Cuddy said.

"Born ready," he said, unconvincingly.

And they sat side by side on the couch and pulled out Wilson's box.

The first picture was of Wilson as a small boy—maybe 6—his hair slicked back with some kind of oil, wearing a formal black suit and a tie.

"How adorable," Cuddy said.

"You think it's adorable that his mother dressed him like a mortician?"

Then Wilson's bar mitzvah: Braces and acne.

"The beginning of his 30-year-long awkward phase," House cracked.

Then pictures of Wilson in high school: On the chess team, the mathletes, the tennis team.

"I bet he never got laid in high school," House said.

Cuddy raised her eyes. "I bet he _did_," she said approvingly.

"Really? You like that sensitive nerd with floppy hair look?" he said.

"All I'm saying is, teenage Wilson could get it."

House shrugged.

The next photo: High school graduation, flanked by his beaming parents.

One picture of Wilson with his younger brother—the one who had mental illness and had disappeared. You could tell just from the snapshot—they were visiting an apple farm of some sort—that Wilson was already eyeing his brother protectively.

Then a bunch of college pics: Toga parties, girlfriends, one unexpected period when Wilson bleached his hair nearly white.

"Damn, I wish I'd known about that," House said. "So much potential mocking gone to waste."

There were two separate sets of wedding photos.

"Single-handedly keeping the wedding photography industry afloat," House remarked.

And finally, his Princeton Plainsboro years.

Cuddy held up a candid shot of House and Wilson, standing in the hospital hall, chatting. It must've been Wilson's first year at the hospital.

"Look how young you two looked," Cuddy said wistfully, staring at it. "Look at how much _hair_ you had."

"Thanks for rubbing it in," House said.

He took the photo, stared at it.

"Wilson was lecturing me on why I should be more sensitive to my patient's feelings," he said.

"You remember that _exact_ conversation?" Cuddy said.

"Naa," House said, with a grin. "But it's a safe bet."

More photos: One of him and Amber—she was doing the bunny ears behind his head and he was playfully wrestling her hands away. One of a little bald boy, obviously a cancer patient, looking up at Wilson adoringly.

And another photo—oh damn him—of her, Wilson and House, all dressed to the nines, the night of the PPTH Monte Carlo gala. She and Wilson were smiling, raising champagne glasses cheerfully. House was chomping on a cigar and arching an eyebrow in mock provocation at the camera.

"You never know the good ol' days are the good ol' days while they're happening," Cuddy said, musingly.

"No," House said. "You don't."

They had been making two piles: Yes (for the brochure) and No (not for the brochure).

But House took the photo of the gala and—instead of placing it in a pile— slid it into his jacket pocket.

Then they pulled out another photo. This was a fairly recent one: Cuddy, dressed in a form-fitting black gown, and Wilson, next to her in a tuxedo.

House frowned at it.

"Why don't I remember that dress?" he said. Then he added, almost too himself: "I'm pretty sure I'd remember that dress."

"That was the night I received that award from the Hope Foundation," Cuddy said. "The night you. . ."

"Flaked on you," House said, remembering.

"Yeah," Cuddy said.

"Have I ever apologized for that?"

"Yes," Cuddy said. "Several times."

"I remember alcohol was involved. Lots and lots of alcohol."

"Do you know what you said to me that night?" Cuddy said. The events of that night were permanently seared in her memory. It had been a turning point, in some ways. "You said I made you a worse doctor."

House, who had been staring at the photo, now put it down.

"That was true," he said.

"It was a shitty thing to say," she said.

"It was a compliment," House countered.

"Yes, telling me that people would die because of me was very flattering."

"All I meant was, I finally cared about something—someone—more than the puzzle. Diagnosing is a lonely man's game. And I. . .wasn't lonely anymore."

Cuddy swallowed.

"That was also the night you said you would always choose me," she said, as if the very notion was now silly.

He looked at her.

"Nothing's changed," he said softly.

"Everything has changed."

"My feelings for you haven't."

"Tell that to Rhonda," Cuddy said, somewhat bitterly.

"Who?" House said, with a tiny smile.

But she refused to be charmed.

"You know. Your _girlfriend_?"

"Cuddy, you can't possibly think I would choose her—or anyone else—over you."

It was strange to hear him say it. It was like he was saying something she once knew for a fact, but had somehow forgotten.

"Then why are you with her?" she demanded.

"To help get over you," he answered, frankly. "Which, in case you were wondering, is impossible."

"But why do you _need_ to get over me?"

The photos had become an afterthought. They were both looking at each other now, searchingly.

"Cuddy," House said. "Don't do this."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't act like being with you is an option, when we both know it's not an option."

"Why isn't it an option?"

"Because, you asked me to back off. _Begged_ me to. When you were with Noah."

"And now I'm not with Noah."

"Which had nothing to do with me."

"Which had everything to do with you," she said.

He looked scared somehow, like she was setting some sort of emotional trap that he was in danger of falling into.

"But you never said anything," he said.

"Dr. Nolan said I was a hindrance to your recovery."

"That was when I was _in_ Mayfield. Not once I got out."

"And once you got out. . . everything was different."

"Why? Because of _Rhonda_?"

It was like he couldn't wrap his mind around the notion that Cuddy could view her as competition.

"Partly, yes," Cuddy said.

"You told me you broke up with Noah because you couldn't handle the long distance thing."

"You had a new girlfriend!" she said, raising her voice a bit. "What was I supposed to say? That I came to your office that day thinking—hoping—we could be together again? That I broke up with Noah because I knew that I'd never love another man as much as I love you?"

House looked like he was trying to keep himself steady.

"Cuddy, don't," he repeated. "Don't say these things."

"Why?"

"Because. . I can't go through this again. I can't lose you again. We're better like this—friends. That way I won't get hurt."

"If that's what you really want," Cuddy said.

"Of course it's not what I want," he said.

"Then what do you want?"

He stared at her. Then inhaled like he was about to jump off a cliff.  
"This," he said.

He grabbed her and kissed her, hard, on the mouth.

She kissed back and suddenly his hands were all over her—greedily—reaching under her jacket, groping at her back, her waist, any exposed swath of skin.

She felt that familiar sensation—that whirling rush of desire—but managed to stop herself, push him away.

"You have a girlfriend," she said, stubbornly.

"I'll break up with her tomorrow," he breathed, kissing her neck, her mouth, her cleavage.

She put her hand on his chest, stopping him.

"You swear?"

He looked up, wild-eyed, almost comically desperate.

"Cuddy, I promise I'll break up with her. Give me a phone. I'll do it right now. Please don't make me beg."

He looked like a child whose Christmas presents were in danger of being taken away. She laughed a bit, coming to her senses.

"Like I care about that crazy bitch," she said. "Come here," and she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him toward her.

#####

They managed to make it (barely) to the bedroom.

Later, lying in her bed, with House's arms around her, they were both thinking about the same thing: Cuddy's orgasm—albeit for different reasons.

House was thinking how her orgasm, in all it's wonderful variations (halting and breathless; high-pitched and purring; that sexy sort of throaty moan of hers; and his favorite, the wake-the-neighbors scream) was the greatest sound on earth. Not just because the very thought of it got him off, but because _he_ was the one responsible for it, he was the one to give her such pleasure.

Cuddy, for her part, was just glad to be experiencing that kind of pleasure at all. Briefly, when she was with Noah, she had feared that the best of her sex life was behind her. After all, she was getting older now. Maybe the orgasms in her 40s would be less satisfying.

Just one night with House and she knew she was as tremendously orgasmic as ever.

She snuggled more closely against him, smiled gratefully.

"What's that smile for?" he said.

"I was thinking how much I like how the way you fuck me," she said.

"Me too," he said.

And they both fell asleep.

#####

In the morning, she woke up to the sensation that he was looking at her.

(House, as always, straddling the line between creepy and romantic.)

"Hi," she said, stretching luxuriously. She was still half asleep.

He looked at her, adoringly.

"Marry me," he whispered.

"What?"

That woke her up.

"Marry me," he repeated.

"I know the sex was good last night, but let's not get carried away," she joked.

"I'm not kidding," he said. "I want to wake up like this every day for the rest of my life."

She took his hand.

"House, don't you think we should go steady first?" she said, teasingly.

He sighed, perhaps realizing that he was being a little ridiculous.

"But we have to do it differently this time," he said. "New groundrules."

"Like what?" she said, propping her head on her elbow.

"No holding grudges," he said.

"Done," she said.

"No going to bed mad," he said.

"You keep servicing me like you did last night, I promise to never go to bed mad," she joked.

He gave her a slightly hurt look. She wasn't taking him seriously.

"Okay," she said. "No taking each other for granted."

"Good one," he said. "No bailing on important events."

The awards banquet. She smiled.

"No sweating the small stuff."

Toothbrushes.

"No lying," he said. "Not even at work."

The senator. She nodded.

"No forgetting how much we love each other," she said.

He smiled.

"Along those lines, no soul-crushing breakups," he said. But he gave a tiny smile to show he was just joking.

"No attempted vehicular manslaughter," she countered.

"Touché," he said, laughing.

"The fact that we can laugh about that either shows that we are highly evolved, or deeply disturbed," Cuddy said.

"Both," House said. And he gave her a lusty kiss on the mouth.

She glanced at the door, for the fourth time that morning.

"Why do you keep looking at the door?" House said. "You think Rachel's up already?"

"To be honest, I'm afraid that Rhonda's going to come bursting in. She's terrifying."

"Yeah, she is a little terrifying, isn't she?" he said.

"She's like some sort of angry prison ho. I'm afraid she's going to give me the shiv."

House smirked at her use of the prison vernacular.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'll protect you."

"You promise?" she said.

"I would never let anything happen to you," he said. "Ever."

"How does that Chinese proverb go again?" she said, caressing his bare arm. "The one you told me about that day in the car?"

"He who saves a life is responsible for it," House said.

"Then I guess we're responsible for each other."

THE END


End file.
